Postcard from The End of The World: Chapter Two

Click Here for Postcard from The End of The World: Chapter One

The 19-year old kid sitting next to the left of me at the bar was sloshed, and I wasn’t far behind.

And yet by the time the night was over the Duck had won over a crowd of at least six people with his vocal talents (or lack thereof)…

I had expected my last night in Cabo San Lucas to be a relatively ho-hum affair, as I eschewed the raucous Happy Ending Cantina in favor of the live jazz spot that had been as dead as week-old roadkill two nights previously.  Imagine the thought of seeing the Mexican version of L.A.’s Marty & Elayne (of Swingers fame) playing a venue with the groaner-induced name of ‘Two for the Road.’ The above image is an actual picture of the ‘talent,’ who also happen to own the joint.  When I arrived, as before, I had the bar all to myself.

The keyboardist was a pretty talented guy who knew some of the same cats I did from my old jazz club days back in the Big Apple. As far as the singer went… let’s just say that the more I drank, the better she sounded - and judging from the increased joviality of the handful of folks who had trickled in as the night wore on, I wasn’t alone in my assessment…

The aforementioned inebriated lad was the embodiment of the teenager on vacation in a country where he can legally get his drink on, but without the trained liver to get past 3 drinks without pulling out the stupid life-is-great grin and its partner the slurry-hey-there-buddy voice out of his sock drawer. (And don’t go telling me you don’t know what I’m talking about ). His parents weren’t that far behind, leading me to believe the kid wouldn’t be the only one hung over the next day. I didn’t think ‘Enabling’ was a chapter in Dr. Spock’s Childcare Guide, but I don’t have any kids - that I know of, anyway - so who I am to judge?

At the next set break, the rubenesque chanteuse flitted around the venue like a butterfly in her silvery muumuu, drinking her cosmo and getting chatty with all the customers. She knew it was my last night in town, so she made the most time for me. The conversation turned to Annie Ross’ version of Twisted, which we both agreed is the best one. (Sorry, Trouble and all the rest of you deluded folks who think the Joni Mitchell rendition is better).  She asked me if I wanted to duet it with her on the last set of the night, which I politely declined out of the concern for the aural health of my fellow patrons. I have a singing voice which is almost, but not quite as pleasant as a screaming cat being dragged across a chalkboard table.  She seemed to accept my turndown gracefully, and moved to the next lush down the line.

This gave me the chance to hit on the comely maiden behind the bar, who, like every single girl I had seen in Cabo between the ages of 14 and 25, was wearing a tight tube top as if it was some unwritten city ordinance. I regaled her in one of my most curious interactions on my trip, where while lying on the beach a local youth had tried to sell me a lone shucked oyster on the half shell. Now… visualize the blazing sun directly overhead the hottest beach you’ve ever been on, and a guy you never met before wants to sell you a single piece of raw shellfish that he’s been showcasing on a styrofoam plate, would YOU take him up on his offer? Really? Seriously? Duh — Losing!

Speaking of declined offers, the band was back on for the final few tunes of the night, so the bartender took the opportunity to pry herself away from my verbal clutches and call last call. I got another Indio to go double fisted for the home stretch, and settled in for the music, resurrecting my conversation with The Talented Mister Lushly, (Jr.) about sports or band camp or some other easily forgettable topic.

“And for our last song of the night,” the diva interrupted from the direction of the stage, “we are joined by a special guest all the way from New York, who’s going to join me in singing ‘Twisted.’ Let’s give him a big hand folks!”

And here I was, the figurative spotlight on me, about to get killed again - this time by patrons driven into a murderous rage by the vocal dishonor I was about to bestow on a jazz classic. My mind was flailing around, appropriately enough, like a besnorkeled tourist on the verge of being swept out to sea.  But wouldn’t you know it, I strapped on a pair, walked up on stage, and swung the house down. By the end of the song, all of the six or even seven in the crowd were applauding. Whether it was for my singing or for finally getting off the stage I’ll never know. Or care.

In any case, I guess this jazz cat has nine lives.