| Actress and dancer Vera-Ellen |
“The other morning it was beautiful and sunny and so I took a walk around 11:30 through Frick Park and ended up walking though upstreet Regent Square, where I ran into a lady I know who bartends at Murphy’s. She was sitting at a table outside the bar with a patron, a guy I know by face only, and I stood there chatting with her,” said a beefy salesman-type with unruly hair to a bandana-wearin Artist type, who was sitting at a back corner of the bar.
“As I was standing there chatting, down from the end of the block outta the haze came a vision—a good-looking girl walking briskly up the sidewalk toward us. As she approached I saw she was beautiful and curvy. She had on a tight brown mini-dress that was impossibly short. Her gait was quick, though she was wearing pink flip-flops…And the way she walked—it was like an art form in itself—a form of music. A symphony of sashayin. I mean this girl could WALK…”
“As I was standing there chatting, down from the end of the block outta the haze came a vision—a good-looking girl walking briskly up the sidewalk toward us. As she approached I saw she was beautiful and curvy. She had on a tight brown mini-dress that was impossibly short. Her gait was quick, though she was wearing pink flip-flops…And the way she walked—it was like an art form in itself—a form of music. A symphony of sashayin. I mean this girl could WALK…”
“Pfft,” says the artist, looking jaded and unimpressed.
“By that point, I’d stopped talkin with the bartender and was no longer glancing at the gal in the mini-dress, I was staring at her. And Bolero’s playin in my head: DA, da da datta data da data da…”
“Oh geez,” the artist says.
“The music’s playing louder as she gets close and that's when I really begin to truly notice her legs—they are amazing, the best legs I’ve seen since the actress and dancer Vera-Ellen. And while I am transfixed by those legs, I notice again the hot pink sandals and my eyes go up her legs again past that short hemline, not stopping as they go until I’m looking at her face, which is cast downward. Then she raises her head and catches me starin at her.
“She stares back, and only then do I realize it’s a girl I know who I’d recently introduced myself to. We’re still starin at each other, she bites her lower lip very slightly and turns and walks into the coffee shop next door… And Bolero’s pounding in my ears—the crescendo part at the end--all those strings and the percussion and blaring horns. I'm blown away.”
The artist looks back at the salesman with an exasperated expression, taking a deep breath, shaking his head and letting out a sigh. “Man, you REALLY need to get laid,” he says.
