Monday, August 13, 2018

My Redacted Life: Chapter 20 (Cont._3)

My first date with the “aggravating beauty” Brenda Cole was going well. We had finished a nice Italian meal at a small place on Cantrell. I hadn't said anything really stupid or offensive so far. What next? Then it dawned on me. One of Little Rock’s most unique meeting spots was just across the street.

Somehow, when they built a modern supermarket there, they had left small building smack dab in the middle of the parking lot. It housed a small bar and diner upstairs and steps led to a more intimate and less formal room downstairs, not much larger than a modern living room. They served beer, and, if I recall, sometimes had an entertainer adding to the ambiance. It was only open, the lower room, in the evening.

It was the kind of place, it seemed to me, that might impress a young lady who didn’t appear to be easily impressed.

 Arkansas Fats, they called it. Not many people knew about it and even less dared venture below. Someone on Riverside Drive had introduced me to it. It was that kind of place. I asked the lovely Miss Cole had she ever been there. She said, “No,” accompanied by a look that she might have used had I asked if she’d ever been to a Klan rally.

“Come on,” I said. “You’ll get a kick out of it.”

“I’m sure,” she said.

We got in the sports car, drove to the intersection and doubled back into the shopping center parking lot. There are certain streets in Little Rock that simply cannot be crossed by pedestrians, Cantrell being one of them. We parked outside the building housing the bar, and I noticed how shabby it looked. It clearly outdated the supermarket and I imagined that there must have been a story there somewhere.

Anyway, she was a good sport about it and went in with me, only looking a bit quizzical as we descended into the lower level. I supposed she trusted me, not always a good idea.

We wrapped up the evening with a beer and passable fellowship with other adventurous souls willing to descend into the catacombs. Honestly, I don’t remember if there was entertainment that evening. I was transfixed by the effect of the dim, soft mellow lighting on the face of the woman with me. It was as if the entire room had been lit by candles designed specifically to capture the highlights of her face and hair.

She lit a cigarette, took a sip of beer, and leaned back as if to say, “Well, Jocko, you got me here. What’s next?”

Seriously, it was a dive dug beneath
 a parking lot and called "Arkansas Fats."
I do remember wondering if she was impressed by my unique knowledge of legendary Little Rock “hot spots” or totally grossed out by my presumption.

I decided I wouldn’t think anymore about it. It wasn’t a time for negative thinking. We drank our beer, talked softly, and she even smiled a couple of times at my silly chatter about some strange planning commission meeting or other. If she felt insulted by my choice of entertainment, she didn’t show it.

Would we follow this date with another? Who knew, or who cared? We would always have Little Rock, and tonight.

I decided I would find out about the future soon enough. One thing I’m sure of, though. Not many men can say they fell in love in the basement of Arkansas Fats.

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