Occupational Hazzards
Chapter twenty-two
Our recuperation trip aboard the Harley was entering
its third week. We'd left Maryland on a cool, October
Monday morning and visited with relatives in Ohio,
Indiana and Kansas. We were now cruising down
California's Pacific Coast Highway heading for
Monterey. We'd left the office in Buddy's capable
hands.
We had reservations at a bed and breakfast near
Cannery Row in a quiet part of Pacific Grove. After
being on the motorcycle for ten days, we didn't want
to ride anywhere else so we intended to stroll about
Monterey on foot.
We arrived at Seaview Place at high noon and quickly
unpacked the ElectraGlide and hit the shower. While
Dana fixed her hair, I perused brochures describing
the local cultural highlights. Kalisa's Mid-Eastern
Restaurant looked like a nice dinner adventure for our
first night in town. Tomorrow, we'd take in the
aquarium and do some shopping.
At 7:30 p.m., we were sipping cold Olympia beers at
Kalisa's and taking in the second half of the
evening's first floor show. Four belly dancers were
plying their trade amid a flurry of diaphanous veils
and reverberating ankle bells. Like tiny tan
tornadoes, the girls whirled among the seated patrons
while muti-colored spotlights ricocheted off them and
the audience. Kalisa's native Turkish band increased
the musical pace (and volume) as the floor show
reached its climax and the dancers doffed their lame
tops. Bare-chested, they completed a frenzied final
circuit of the room and quickly exited to the wild,
appreciative applause and cheers.
Having switched to wine, Dana and I raised our glasses
of vino locale in a private toast to the now departed
dancers as Dana exclaimed, "Wow, I wish I knew how to
do that! I think it's soooo sexy...and it's gotta be
great exercise too!"
"I know I'm tired out just watching them," I
responded. "Perhaps we could add something like that
to our customer lounge."
We had some more wine then ordered dinner--hearty beef
dishes to refuel from watching the floor show.
Following dinner, we decided to tour the wharf area
and left Kalisa's about 2100 hours.
"Let's stop back later and see the second show," I
suggested and to which Dana agreed.
We strolled through the cool, waterfront evening
taking in the sights you see only on the coast--sea
otters chowing down while floating on their backs and
whales spouting off along the horizon. Seals barked
far off in the distance. We checked out the outdoor
displays by local artists and bought some corny, but
well executed, watercolors of Monterey's "Lone
Cypress."
We arrived back at Kalisa's just in time to order two
Golden Caddilac's before the lights dimmed, signifying
the start of the show. The band started off with a
slow, discordant riff punctuated by the rise and fall
of an obnoxious oboe. However, the first dancer to
appear erased all semblance of the woeful music. Her
manner was regal and her movements fluid as she
drifted along the first row of tables. Her entire
frame was veiled in white and translucent aqua flowing
fabric. Barefoot, she was extraordinarily tall, well
over six feet. Her fingers chimed bells in concert
with the music. The audience was hushed. Slowly, in
rhythm with the music, she removed several lengths of
fabric and trailed them elegantly behind her. As she
uncovered, she was joined by another dancer who was
equally cloaked but differentiated by shades of red in
her garb, Eventually, blue and green dancers joined
the ranks. The first dancer was stripped down to a
sequined halter and aqua harem pants with the required
naval jewel and minimal face veil. She began her hip
gyrations in a furious version of the belly-dance. The
remaining dancers soon followed until they all were
heavily into the belly-undulating movements that
tourists associate with native mid-East dancing.
For the finale, our aqua dancer positioned herself
near me for which I was thankful. I've always had a
thing for tall women and watching a semi-nude one up
close executing impressive muscle control was a real
treat. Aqua suddenly reached out, grabbed my elbows
and pulled me up. With a bit too much booze in me, I
just stood there as she reached into my sport coat and
pulled up on my shirt. I then realized that it was the
audience participation portion of the program and
quickly retrieved my seat--I have no rhythm.
Unfortunately for the rest of the audience, Aqua
wouldn't give up and I soon has coatless with my shirt
rolled to expose my midriff trying fruitlessly to
duplicate her moves. Luckily, others were subjected to
the same humiliation. Dana was eventually also chosen
and actually earned some applause from a nearby bald
gentlemen. He was rewarded by several rapid arm slaps
by his wife.
When I was finally released, I slipped a ten dollar
bill into Aqua's waistband along with my card listing
me as a recruiter for the Cooper Organization. The
floor show ended and Dana and I began a quit walk to
our quarters through the still streets of Pacific
Grove.
The next day, we re-mounted the Harley and visited the
Army's Presidio where I had attended language training
nearly three decades earlier. Surpassingly, little had
changed. Many of the one-story, stilt supported,
gangrene-colored classrooms, nee barracks, still
dotted the steep hill of the Presidio. We followed up
with a trip to Carmel on a fruitless quest to find
Clint Eastwood. Finally, our day trip ended with a
tour to Pasa Robles and the site of James Dean's fatal
auto accident.
We returned to our quarters in Monterey the next
night. A message had been left at the front desk. In a
small envelope, Aqua had inserted a note with her
phone number and two cursive sentences. It read, "
Curious as to your job title. Please call me before
6:p.m."
"Hey, we've heard from Aqua and I've piqued her
interest," I told Dana. "Let's give her a call."
We arranged to me Aqua at a her friend's farm to the
east of Salinas at 1900 hours the next day.
On to Chapter 23
