In Hell on Earth, a love story I talk quite a bit about the Tiki Girls, which I discovered about twenty minutes after I signed in at the 19th Artillery Group at Fort MacArthur.
Cecil and I were spending another night in our second home, The Tiki Girls, making mindless conversation with the local fishermen, playing pool with the young toughs and old men, and having deep debates, which neither would remember in the morning. As Walter Cronkite would have said, it was a night like every other night and we were still there.
We first started going to the Tiki because of the barmaids. Rene was the first one. I met her the first day I was in San Pedro, a month before Cecil ever got there. It was 100° and she was sitting on the bar with her feet in the sink with the cold water running on them. After Rene, there was Linda, then Betsy and well, there really wasn’t anyone after them. In fact, a lot of the time, the Tiki didn’t even have barmaids; just some guy working the bar. That's how it was this particular night.
Cecil and I were solving one problem after another that wasn’t being addressed by anyone else as patrons continued to come and go. Over time more went than came and the bar started to empty out and before long there was only Cecil and I and a few other regulars.
And there was this girl who we had never seen before and so naturally we introduced ourselves. It turns out her name was Sheila and she was from Mississippi. Like a lot of people, when I think of Mississippi I tend to conjure up some pretty standard stereotypes—uneducated, poor, red necks, slow-witted. You get the picture.
Anyway, once we found out she was from Mississippi I think we must have started getting on her case pretty bad. Since Cecil was from Alabama, I’m sure I was dumping on her a bit more than he was, since Alabama carries a lot of the same stereotypes.
The next morning I was making breakfast when Cecil filled me in on what had transpired the previous night.
“I guess we won’t be going to the Tiki for awhile,” he said matter-of-factly.
“Why’s that?” I asked.
“You don’t remember?”
He chuckled and cleared his throat the way southerners do when they got something good to say but they don’t want to seem to anxious.
“You don’t remember getting kicked out and barred for life?”
“Barred for life! They’re not going to bar us for life. Hell, some nights we’re the only ones in there. Barred from a bar is even grammatically possible—is it?”
“I didn’t say they barred both of us. They kicked us both out but you’re the only one they won’t let back in. I can go back.” He paused. “I’ll probably be going back tonight.” He paused again. “But you can’t go back.”
Cecil was having a lot of fun.
“Well, I declare, Cecil, what did I do?” I said, casually mimicking a southerner with an irreverent portrayal they are already fed up with.
“Well what did I do?”
“You really don’t remember?”
“I don’t think so,” I said, wondering what I could have done to get kicked out of a bar we had been going to practically every night since we came to San Pedro.
“Do you remember a girl named Sheila?”
Sheila? That name sounded kind of familiar but I didn’t know why. We didn’t know any Sheila’s.
“I don’t know. Who’s Sheila?”
“She’s the girl from Mississippi. Remember her?”
“I guess. No, not really.”
Cecil was really enjoying this. “So you don’t remember when she tried to kill you?”
“Who tried to kill me? How?”
“Sheila, the girl from Mississippi. She tried to stab you with a knife.”
“Why?”
“Because she’s from Mississippi,” he explained. “You said some pretty nasty stuff about Mississippi—and about her.”
“Get out.”
“That’s what the bartender said. He stopped her before she could stab you and then he kicked us out.”
“He stopped her. Where were you? Why didn’t you stop her?”
“You said some pretty nasty stuff about Alabama, too. But I wouldn’t stab you. I ain’t no dumb shit from Mississippi.”
Well, eventually Cecil explained in more detail what had gone on that night and I have to admit, I did give Sheila a pretty rough time although certainly not enough to justify killing me. We went down to the Tiki and I apologized and they agreed to let me come back if I promised not to get myself killed there.
A few months earlier another guy, a regular, had walked in and shot three patrons dead and the Tiki Girls owner was still smarting from that and didn’t want any repeats—at least not for a while.
I did behave myself and worked my way back into the good graces of the Tiki staff. One night, a few weeks after this all occurred, I was in there by myself. I may have been doing laundry or something because I remember it being rather early in the day—even by our standards. I was sitting on the short end of the long L-shaped bar and a girl was sitting on the long end not too far from where I sat. She looked vaguely familiar but I didn’t know where from. Finally I asked if I knew her.
“Yeah. I tried to kill you a week or so back,” she said. “I see they let you back in.”
“So you’re Sheila. Now I remember. Did they throw you out too?”
“No, they said you were asking for it.”
To make a long story short, I apologized to her and we actually had a pretty pleasant conversation—so good in fact that I felt I should do something to show her I really was sorry for all the nasty things I said about the great state of Mississippi. I asked her if she wanted to go somewhere, bowling or something, or maybe out to get something to eat.
“Have you ever seen the Planet of the Ape movies?” she asked.
I didn’t have to think long for the answer to that question. “No, not really. I think I’ve missed them all.”
“They’re showing all three of them at the theater, today. I love those movies. Do you want to take me?”
Well, I didn’t really want to but I had said some pretty nasty stuff so I did owe her—although a Planet of the Apes trilogy was a pretty high price to pay for a few disparaging remarks about Mississippi.
“All right. I’ve got to go home now, but I’ll pick you up in about an hour.”
I picked her up at the Y, which is where she was staying while she was in town and we drove to the theater to watch in rapid succession, Planet of the Apes, Return to Planet of the Apes, and Beneath the Planet of the Apes. When we had gone into the theater it was a typical, sunny, California afternoon and six hours later when we exited it was like I had died and gone to—well I know exactly where we went. We went to a depressing planet where, get this, the apes are no smarter than we are. Who would have thought?
I brought her back to the Y and we never saw each other again because there was no reason to. I had paid my debt to the great state of Mississippi. I assume she moved back home because you can only stay so long at the Y.
Maybe she was a Planet of the Apes groupie and just came to San Pedro for the movies. All I know is that after six hours of watching and listening to those apes, anything I ever said about Mississippi or Sheila from Mississippi goes double. No make that triple.
Cecil and I were spending another night in our second home, The Tiki Girls, making mindless conversation with the local fishermen, playing pool with the young toughs and old men, and having deep debates, which neither would remember in the morning. As Walter Cronkite would have said, it was a night like every other night and we were still there.
We first started going to the Tiki because of the barmaids. Rene was the first one. I met her the first day I was in San Pedro, a month before Cecil ever got there. It was 100° and she was sitting on the bar with her feet in the sink with the cold water running on them. After Rene, there was Linda, then Betsy and well, there really wasn’t anyone after them. In fact, a lot of the time, the Tiki didn’t even have barmaids; just some guy working the bar. That's how it was this particular night.
Cecil and I were solving one problem after another that wasn’t being addressed by anyone else as patrons continued to come and go. Over time more went than came and the bar started to empty out and before long there was only Cecil and I and a few other regulars.
And there was this girl who we had never seen before and so naturally we introduced ourselves. It turns out her name was Sheila and she was from Mississippi. Like a lot of people, when I think of Mississippi I tend to conjure up some pretty standard stereotypes—uneducated, poor, red necks, slow-witted. You get the picture.
Anyway, once we found out she was from Mississippi I think we must have started getting on her case pretty bad. Since Cecil was from Alabama, I’m sure I was dumping on her a bit more than he was, since Alabama carries a lot of the same stereotypes.
The next morning I was making breakfast when Cecil filled me in on what had transpired the previous night.
“I guess we won’t be going to the Tiki for awhile,” he said matter-of-factly.
“Why’s that?” I asked.
“You don’t remember?”
He chuckled and cleared his throat the way southerners do when they got something good to say but they don’t want to seem to anxious.
“You don’t remember getting kicked out and barred for life?”
“Barred for life! They’re not going to bar us for life. Hell, some nights we’re the only ones in there. Barred from a bar is even grammatically possible—is it?”
“I didn’t say they barred both of us. They kicked us both out but you’re the only one they won’t let back in. I can go back.” He paused. “I’ll probably be going back tonight.” He paused again. “But you can’t go back.”
Cecil was having a lot of fun.
“Well, I declare, Cecil, what did I do?” I said, casually mimicking a southerner with an irreverent portrayal they are already fed up with.
“Well what did I do?”
“You really don’t remember?”
“I don’t think so,” I said, wondering what I could have done to get kicked out of a bar we had been going to practically every night since we came to San Pedro.
“Do you remember a girl named Sheila?”
Sheila? That name sounded kind of familiar but I didn’t know why. We didn’t know any Sheila’s.
“I don’t know. Who’s Sheila?”
“She’s the girl from Mississippi. Remember her?”
“I guess. No, not really.”
Cecil was really enjoying this. “So you don’t remember when she tried to kill you?”
“Who tried to kill me? How?”
“Sheila, the girl from Mississippi. She tried to stab you with a knife.”
“Why?”
“Because she’s from Mississippi,” he explained. “You said some pretty nasty stuff about Mississippi—and about her.”
“Get out.”
“That’s what the bartender said. He stopped her before she could stab you and then he kicked us out.”
“He stopped her. Where were you? Why didn’t you stop her?”
“You said some pretty nasty stuff about Alabama, too. But I wouldn’t stab you. I ain’t no dumb shit from Mississippi.”
Well, eventually Cecil explained in more detail what had gone on that night and I have to admit, I did give Sheila a pretty rough time although certainly not enough to justify killing me. We went down to the Tiki and I apologized and they agreed to let me come back if I promised not to get myself killed there.
A few months earlier another guy, a regular, had walked in and shot three patrons dead and the Tiki Girls owner was still smarting from that and didn’t want any repeats—at least not for a while.
I did behave myself and worked my way back into the good graces of the Tiki staff. One night, a few weeks after this all occurred, I was in there by myself. I may have been doing laundry or something because I remember it being rather early in the day—even by our standards. I was sitting on the short end of the long L-shaped bar and a girl was sitting on the long end not too far from where I sat. She looked vaguely familiar but I didn’t know where from. Finally I asked if I knew her.
“Yeah. I tried to kill you a week or so back,” she said. “I see they let you back in.”
“So you’re Sheila. Now I remember. Did they throw you out too?”
“No, they said you were asking for it.”
To make a long story short, I apologized to her and we actually had a pretty pleasant conversation—so good in fact that I felt I should do something to show her I really was sorry for all the nasty things I said about the great state of Mississippi. I asked her if she wanted to go somewhere, bowling or something, or maybe out to get something to eat.
“Have you ever seen the Planet of the Ape movies?” she asked.
I didn’t have to think long for the answer to that question. “No, not really. I think I’ve missed them all.”
“They’re showing all three of them at the theater, today. I love those movies. Do you want to take me?”
Well, I didn’t really want to but I had said some pretty nasty stuff so I did owe her—although a Planet of the Apes trilogy was a pretty high price to pay for a few disparaging remarks about Mississippi.
“All right. I’ve got to go home now, but I’ll pick you up in about an hour.”
I picked her up at the Y, which is where she was staying while she was in town and we drove to the theater to watch in rapid succession, Planet of the Apes, Return to Planet of the Apes, and Beneath the Planet of the Apes. When we had gone into the theater it was a typical, sunny, California afternoon and six hours later when we exited it was like I had died and gone to—well I know exactly where we went. We went to a depressing planet where, get this, the apes are no smarter than we are. Who would have thought?
I brought her back to the Y and we never saw each other again because there was no reason to. I had paid my debt to the great state of Mississippi. I assume she moved back home because you can only stay so long at the Y.
Maybe she was a Planet of the Apes groupie and just came to San Pedro for the movies. All I know is that after six hours of watching and listening to those apes, anything I ever said about Mississippi or Sheila from Mississippi goes double. No make that triple.
This is too funny! I always love your writing...Jess
ReplyDeleteLoved this story! Thanks for letting me know about the blog!
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