The Libertine Belles of Dallas

A text arrives. It’s from Bo Lynne. “Hi again okay bye!” I can still see the taillights of her taxi lingering in the distant night. A whiff of her deodorant lingers closer. 

The last few hours are unclear. Unfathomable. Whoa; the fuck?; the fuck was that?

Dallas happened, bro, says Sacrobosco, cackling from the sidewalk. His hair is atypically disheveled and he’s leaning against a brick wall to counter-balance the spin of the earth. The earth doesn’t relent. Not for him. Not for me. Revolving at my feet, the earth pulls my legs away from my torso. Losing balance, I grab ahold of a light pole. Can you drive? No. Can you? No. Guess we’re sleeping in the truck. Sacrobosco laughs at the best laid plans, saying, Amarillo can wait. I agree with him, Amarillo will have to. 

The taillights are gone. 

Victorio, vecio, Sacrobosco says through groggy hilarity, I knew it was mistake to listen to Lonesome Dove book-on-tape during the drive. We cannot get halfway through Texas before you are engaged to marry a ranch girl. Come, Victorio, we must be celebrating. A toast to your future ex-wives. 

No one is gettin’…, I say. A toast where?, we’ve closed Greenville Avenue. I’ve a flask!, he remembers, back at the truck! A nightcap to celebrate. And then sleep. Sleep until daybreak. Then onward to Amarillo.

Eleven minutes ago…

It’d be okay if you’re already in love with me, Bo Lynne said as she walked with her arm wrapped around mine. But we shouldn’t rush things, okay?, she said. We should wait. I am not ready to settle down. You have more adventures ahead of you, right? You’re not ready to settle down, are you? And I am not ready to settle down, she said again. I figure in 7 years, Bo Lynne said, I will own my own studio. And then I can settle down. You’ve got another seven years of adventuring don’t you? It’s perfect then. We’ll wait. Just keep your saddle oiled, big guy. And your gun greased. But it’d be okay if you’re already in love with me. 

Alright.

Twenty-three minutes ago…

Outside SHIPS Lounge, Bo Lynne announced she’s coming with us to Amarillo. Like hell you ain’t!, Meredith Belle countered. “Like hell you ain’t”, Bo Lynne parroted, asking, is that a double-negative? I think it is. I’m going, Mere’, Bo Lynne told her sister. These boys are traveling out where the busses don’t run. West Texas will chew ‘em up without me. 

Bo Lynne was snug, clung to my torso, under my leather jacket. I appreciated her warmth. Her blonde hair smelled of cheap shampoo. Sacrobosco, who had been listening to the women debate, turned towards me and shrugged with his face. Was Bo Lynne coming to Amarillo with us?, we quietly pondered. Did it matter? If we arrived in Amarillo late tonight, or, I guess it would be midday today, did it matter that we had a stowaway? A 5’1” gymnast with busted knees and cold hands which crept the inside of my shirt? I didn’t mind. And Sacrobosco wore an expression of mild bemusement. Let her tagalong, he gesticulated with a mere wave of hand. Always the romantic. And he’s drank enough bourbon to set his piss on fire. 

Bitch!, please, Meredith said after exhaling from her vape pen to speak to her sister. Papa says never agree to nothing under neon light. Your only plans are coming home with me!

Fifty-seven minutes ago…

This road trip has really gummed up the internal machinations of my digestive system. Libertine’s muenster fries and pork belly spring roll did not help. To be honest, I confessed to myself in the privacy of a bathroom stall at SHIPS Lounge. If I am being honest, I said, this chick had my butterflies swimming. My gut rumbled. My plumbing rattled. And I found resolution. Standard fight or flight response, I guess. Back to the dance floor…

I left the bathroom to find the chorus of a hiphop song blasting from the jukebox. Low by Flo Rida. The heightened voices of men cheering could be heard. I followed the crowd to an impromptu dance floor where the Belle sisters – Meredith in her horned rimmed glasses, long blonde hair, black cocktail dress & Bo Lynne in her dirty blonde pixie-cut, rainbow striped sweater and torn blue jeans – danced a perfectly choreographed routine. Choreographed down to the reach-around right-handed self-ass-slap, which set the onlooking crowd on fire. 

A wide-eyed voyeuristic cowpunch who was appreciating the show turned towards me, good lord, buddy, he said, you’re in for it tonight! 

After the performance, the local fellas whistled & clapped, hollered “encore!”, but mostly looked at me with envy. Having settled my nerves, I smiled with cavalier confidence. I ordered another beer before Sacrobosco informed me I had a shot of Irish whiskey waiting for me. 

Ninety-one minutes ago…

Now somewhere in the Black Mountain Hills of Dakota, the girls sang “Rocky Raccoon”. Bo Lynne and her sister had taken ownership of the SHIPS jukebox. A serenade of the song from the Beatles’ White Album eventually turned into a slow-dance. Bo Lynne on her ballerina toes, hanging around my neck to sing closer to my ear. 

One hundred nine minutes ago…

I really needed the walk. And the cool air. I silently pledged no more booze. Only beer from here on out. 

We moved south along Greenville Avenue. Away from the Libertine to a lower-stakes dive bar. When Bo Lynne heard I was an aficionado of depraved watering holes, she said, boy howdy!, do I have a dive for you, fella!  

Having lost Silvia back at the turn, we were just four, but the subtraction made us even more disjointed. Sacrobosco was full of delirium & whiskey, but distanced, an impartial observer. The twins weren’t sure what to make of the Italian. Meanwhile, these sisters dazzled with kinetic energy, moving between us like remoras amongst sharks. A story was told of their mother, pregnant in Them There Hills, Oklahoma. Mama Belle was so low on calcium the twins were born with jagged little piranha teeth. Meredith was horrified Bo Lynne would share this detail, but Bo Lynne, the free-spirited younger of the twins, did not care. It’s a fascinating tidbit!, she claimed. Besides, we’ve had dental implants to make us look more human. Do you like my teeth, big guy?, she asked me. They’re not really real. Want to lick them?

One hundred nineteen minutes ago…

Sacrobosco was back at the table settling the bill between our two cards. We were financing the entire birthday party. When the Belle twins were born, they were lucky not to be burned at the stake, Sacrobosco joked in confidence. Spooky little creatures with big dark eyes, speaking a strange tongue of their own diabolical invention. They grew into beautiful women, yes, but what frightening little creatures they must have been in childhood.  

Silvia and Meredith collected their coats and were waiting near the door. Bo Lynne was wearing my coat over her unraveling sweater. She and I were at the bar while Sacrobosco handled the paperwork. I had earlier introduced Bo Lynne Belle to the Sazarac, my favorite New Orleans cocktail, and now she wanted to judge absinthe on its own merit. The Libertine bartenders did not have the pomp & circumstance one would expect to find in a Parisienne apothecary, but for Texas, the shot glass of green fairy and a sugar cube did the trick. 

How long will your trip be?, Bo Lynne asked. 9 months, I said. One-way ticket. There’s no return from Mars, not yet. Bo Lynne was fascinated with the desperate voyage. She smiled, saying, we will have to make the most of your remaining time here on earth. What should I cook as your last meal? Do you like fried-chicken? I will make you my famous fried-chicken and jalapeño Dutch-apple pie, Bo Lynne said. It will be the meal you think of when you’re up on Mars, looking home, dreaming of me. 

One hundred thirty-three minutes ago…

Silvia returned to the table. Her food was cold and her seat beside me in the booth was now occupied by Bo Lynne, who I was strangely beginning to tolerate. Silvia no longer looked in my direction. Bo Lynne, however, was full of attention. So you got any girlfriends in Amarillo, big guy? No? Be careful out there. Those West Texas girls’ll bite the head off a diamondback. But then they can suck the rattle clear through the snake. I had a West Texas girlfriend once, Bo Lynne admitted. Bo!, her sister yelled at her. It’s okay!, Bo Lynne said, I bet Vic’s into it. Bo Lynne whispered to me, I had a girlfriend in Lubbock, she is hotter than a stolen tamale. 

What is it you do, Vic?, Meredith asked. I took a sip of my old-fashioned and admitted, I am a scientist. Bo Lynne feigned faint and collapsed into my lap. Eyes closed, her country accent thickened as she said, oh no!, overwhelmed by my passions, I have become defenseless! Please feel free to take advantage of my vulnerable body and study it for the sake of science!

I looked towards Sacrobosco as if to ask what the hell do I do with this? He chuckled with his full-faced grin. Beside him, Meredith yelled at her sister. Sit-up you fucking drama queen!

What’s your science, Big Guy?, Bo Lynne asked, rising back to full stature. Herpetology, I said. I’ve traveled the world studying crocodiles. And I am a hobbyist archaeologist. And I practice podiatry. And I have applied to NASA to be a part of a one-way mission to Mars. 

Oh my god!, Bo Lynne exclaimed. An astronaut with a foot-fetish? What a stud!

One hundred forty-three minutes ago…

Silvia was exhausted and fighting a cold, yet quite charming. Her dancing career had taken her to Southern California. She made enough money to return to Texas and open up her own studio, employing these psychos, she said, referencing the birthday girls. Silvia is the elder, most mature of the three. She spoke in a calm manner, unlike the manic chattering going on between the twins. Sacrobosco, having spent his life around high-intensity Italian women, could wade through the stream of blurted words and was quietly laughing as he sipped his flight of whiskey. I had not been planning on drinking. We were still 6 hours east of Amarillo. But I’ve been persuaded by the twins to have one cocktail before hydrating then driving the rest of the way across Texas. Take a tater and wait, they said. What the hell is “take a tater and wait”?, I asked Silvia. Bo Lynne interrupted to happily inform me, it’s a colloquialism!

Ha, yeah, I said. No shit.  

Bo Lynne got up and moved into the slim space in the booth between Silvia & me. Did Silvia tell you about Bobbie?, Bo Lynne asked. Silvia’s eyes rolled at the intrusion. I ease myself away from Bo Lynne, shaking my head, not really giving a damn about Bobbie. Bo Lynne explained to me anyway, Bobbie is Silvia’s son waiting at home. Bobbie Senior is working drills up in North Dakota. Bobbie Senior?, I asked. Bo Lynne nodded, Silvia likes to keep her husband’s seat warm, if you catch my drift, big guy. Bo!, Silvia hissed at her friend. Bo Lynne continued, Silvia keeps Bobbie Senior’s seat warm by sitting on a lot of strange dick. So thanks for playing, fella! Your participation trophy will be some itchy piss on the West Texas roadside. 

Jesus, Bo!, Silvia said, standing from the table. You’re such a cunt. 

When Silvia stormed-off, Bo Lynne informed me, I saved you from a world of hurt there, fella. You need to whistle before you go walking into a stranger’s camp. And I know she’s got big boobs, but mine are nice & perky. Ha!, I laughed. Thanks, but, uh…, I said. Bo Lynne was fun & pretty like running around with a lit roman-candle is fun & pretty, but I was not interested. Maybe we should just be pen pals?, I recommended. Hmm, pen pals?, Bo Lynne repeated. You know, someone once said you can only regret the fathomable. Idiots cannot fathom and therefore do not have the regret we higher intellects are capable of. Idiots have wonderful, clear, consciences, she said. I raised a glass to toast, to the purity of idiocy. Pure like falling snow, Bo Lynne toasted back. But you’re no idiot, big guy. Don’t be afraid to fathom my depth.

We shared a smile. Okay. Nevertheless, I say, I think I will stay at the shallow end of the pool. 

Good!, Bo Lynne said and smacked the table top. If you don’t like it deep, Sylvia is your girl!

One hundred fifty-seven minutes ago…

The smiling brunette slid over in the booth to make room for me at the table. I was introduced to her by the petite blonde in blue jeans. This is Silvia, the blonde said, she isn’t always this yellow, but her hopper is all busted. She’s sicker than a dog passing peach pits. 

Jesus, Bo!, Silvia said. 

I laughed, more of courtesy than genuine reaction. I take the seat and tell Sylvia I have no idea what was just said. Nevermind Bo Lynne, Silvia said to me. Her red nostrils were glistening with moisture. Silvia explained, Bo Lynne speaks ten words a second with gusts of up to fifty. 

Good to know, I said thinking to myself, what the fuck has Sacrobosco gotten us into? Just minutes ago, I left him at the bar while I put our name in with the hostess. By the time I returned to the bar, Sacrobosco was all smiles. He had made friends. Victorio, vecio!, we have been invited to a birthday party. 

One hundred sixty-nine minutes ago…

The Libertine, at first glance, did not disappoint. Sacrobosco became hypnotized by the wall of whiskey while I inquired after non-alcoholic beer. I designated myself sober to keep us on schedule. The bar was vibrant. Full of urban professionals too young to properly understand whiskey. Not that Sacrobosco and I were ancient, but we were certainly weathered. And this crowd, how did they afford to drink the good stuff? They must be the scions of oil families. Sacrobosco and I had to acquire the taste for whiskey the old fashioned way: drinking a lot of shitty rotgut during our starving-artist salad-days.  

The front door of the Libertine opened and my eyes were drawn to a blonde vixen wearing a black cocktail dress which matched the severity of her horned-rimmed glasses. After the vixen, there was a taller, sultry woman. A bit older. Perhaps Latina. Lastly, there was a second blonde, this one short-haired, dressed in blue jeans and an old sweater. This last girl wiped her nose with the back of her hand before reaching down to itch the crotch of her denims. 

Sacrobosco followed my eyes and whistled. Welcome to Dallas, bro. 

One hundred ninety-nine minutes ago…

We made it through the rains. We left them behind in the bayous. It was stop & go for a while there in Louisiana. We should have gotten off to an earlier start. That was the original plan. Sacrobosco had intended to paint the sunrise over the Gulf of Mexico, but he woke several hours too late. 

We didn’t find any trouble last night in Mobile. Trouble might’ve done us some good. Trouble would have scared us off, back to our hotel at an earlier, more decent, hour. Instead, we drank too much Alabaman beer, eating too many Apalachicola oysters, waiting for something interesting to happen. 

Dallas was now directly ahead of us. I figured we should drive through the city and find a place to grab sustenance & gasoline on the western edge of the city. Refuel before the endless slog of Texas prairie road. 

No, bro!, Sacrobosco said. I have found the best whiskey bar in Texas. A quick stop, Victorio. A few cocktails and we will be back on the road. The Libertine in East Dallas. I promise you will love! 

Sacrobosco hit play on Larry McMurty’s Lonesome Dove. 

Chapter 31. “Well, here’s where we all find out if we was meant to be cowboys,” Augustus said—for he had no doubt that Deets would soon be proved right about the coming storm…

Further Recommendations from Uncharted Dives

Thunder & Temptation: A Dallas-Ft Worth Airport Layover During the End of Times

The Oaxaca Screwjob: Vic & Sacrobosco seek Lucha Libre legends down in Mexico.