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 It clearly outdated the supermarket and I imagined that there must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.
