Peeko Pacifiko by Ken O'Steen
I suppose the response of the two sitting across from me accurately could have been labeled subdued. Tucker’s salient feedback was to tell me his older brother voted for Richard Gephardt in a Democratic primary once. Freely admitted her father once had played golf with Poppy’s Secretary of State and Medicine Man, James Baker. There wasn’t a lot more to it than that.
When we came out of the political battle fog we all began to notice how bustling the place had become. It was noisy with conversation, boisterous with laughter, and redolent of adoration of The Burger Deluxe. The fashion sense, in the sense of fashions purchased on Melrose, or at the Beverly Center was markedly up. I pointed out to Tucker the two limos parked in the street out front, and while I was doing so, another one swung around the corner going in the direction of the parking lot. Like any other temporarily tres groovy pit stop, there was more than the usual flaunting of good looks, perhaps because now there appeared to be more of the good looking actually present; their actions inspiring flaunting by the rest of the crowd keeping hope alive.
My case was further bolstered when a procession of expensively but casually dolled-up females passed by us, the cutie rag mop in front almost certainly the actress Calista Flockhart, paired up with what must have been a gal pal, trailing behind them two conspicuously solicitous flunkettes.
“She looks like her,” Freely said.
“Who?” Tucker asked.
“Ally McBeal…Ca-Ca-CA-lista what’s her name.”
The tittering that rippled through the booths following Calista and company’s progress reinforced Lila’s and my increasingly buttressed assertion of Bobby’s gentrification.
Tucker told Freely to get the attention of the waitress the next time she walked near. Lila excused herself to the ladies’ room. As soon as she got back she told us, “Back there, when I was walking back, sitting in one of the booths was that dumb girl, that really, really dim bulb, the teenybopper whose picture is always in the LA Times…the hotel heiress who shows up at every pre-fabricated soiree…Hilton Hotels, named after a city? “
“Buffalo Hilton,” I said
“All right,” Lila told me, along with the finger slicing across the neck routine.
“It’s Paris Hilton,” Freely confirmed. “She’s going to be gracing us for a long time, don’t you think?”
“Naaah,” Lila and I assured together.
“Aaah,” Freely squealed. She’d caught sight of the waitress, and she managed to signal to her to come to the table.
When the waitress got there she apologized for the extended gap between visits, telling us, “There’s this whole big bunch of big shots in the booth over there,” tilting her head, and lifting her eyes, to direct our glances over her shoulder and a little beyond, “that I had to take care of. One’s the chubby guy with the beard who makes Silent Jay and Bob movies; and the manager says, some movie business guy by the name of Diller or Stiller…I never heard of him; according to him, the woman is the editor of a magazine…I don’t know who she is; and then Sabrina, Sabrina’s with them…you know, Melissa Hart, Sabrina. Phew. They had me hopping.”
Tucker asked her for his and Freely’s check.
“What in god’s name is going on?” Freely shrieked.
Tucker looked over their check, then looked up at me and said, “Maybe you were right.”
The white, wide, brilliant beam of a klieg light was sweeping back and forth across the building as though we were at a major premiere. Looking through the glass, squinting away the reflection in the window, of packs of people huddled into booths, filtering out the signage of the taco stand, and the tanning and nail salons across the street, I singled out a man straddling a motorcycle on the sidewalk in front of Bob’s. While he talked to a couple beside him he was holding the handlebars, and he was aimlessly turning the front wheel of the motorcycle from side to side, its headlamp crossing back and forth across the glamorous façade of Bob’s.
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When we came out of the political battle fog we all began to notice how bustling the place had become. It was noisy with conversation, boisterous with laughter, and redolent of adoration of The Burger Deluxe. The fashion sense, in the sense of fashions purchased on Melrose, or at the Beverly Center was markedly up. I pointed out to Tucker the two limos parked in the street out front, and while I was doing so, another one swung around the corner going in the direction of the parking lot. Like any other temporarily tres groovy pit stop, there was more than the usual flaunting of good looks, perhaps because now there appeared to be more of the good looking actually present; their actions inspiring flaunting by the rest of the crowd keeping hope alive.
My case was further bolstered when a procession of expensively but casually dolled-up females passed by us, the cutie rag mop in front almost certainly the actress Calista Flockhart, paired up with what must have been a gal pal, trailing behind them two conspicuously solicitous flunkettes.
“She looks like her,” Freely said.
“Who?” Tucker asked.
“Ally McBeal…Ca-Ca-CA-lista what’s her name.”
The tittering that rippled through the booths following Calista and company’s progress reinforced Lila’s and my increasingly buttressed assertion of Bobby’s gentrification.
Tucker told Freely to get the attention of the waitress the next time she walked near. Lila excused herself to the ladies’ room. As soon as she got back she told us, “Back there, when I was walking back, sitting in one of the booths was that dumb girl, that really, really dim bulb, the teenybopper whose picture is always in the LA Times…the hotel heiress who shows up at every pre-fabricated soiree…Hilton Hotels, named after a city? “
“Buffalo Hilton,” I said
“All right,” Lila told me, along with the finger slicing across the neck routine.
“It’s Paris Hilton,” Freely confirmed. “She’s going to be gracing us for a long time, don’t you think?”
“Naaah,” Lila and I assured together.
“Aaah,” Freely squealed. She’d caught sight of the waitress, and she managed to signal to her to come to the table.
When the waitress got there she apologized for the extended gap between visits, telling us, “There’s this whole big bunch of big shots in the booth over there,” tilting her head, and lifting her eyes, to direct our glances over her shoulder and a little beyond, “that I had to take care of. One’s the chubby guy with the beard who makes Silent Jay and Bob movies; and the manager says, some movie business guy by the name of Diller or Stiller…I never heard of him; according to him, the woman is the editor of a magazine…I don’t know who she is; and then Sabrina, Sabrina’s with them…you know, Melissa Hart, Sabrina. Phew. They had me hopping.”
Tucker asked her for his and Freely’s check.
“What in god’s name is going on?” Freely shrieked.
Tucker looked over their check, then looked up at me and said, “Maybe you were right.”
The white, wide, brilliant beam of a klieg light was sweeping back and forth across the building as though we were at a major premiere. Looking through the glass, squinting away the reflection in the window, of packs of people huddled into booths, filtering out the signage of the taco stand, and the tanning and nail salons across the street, I singled out a man straddling a motorcycle on the sidewalk in front of Bob’s. While he talked to a couple beside him he was holding the handlebars, and he was aimlessly turning the front wheel of the motorcycle from side to side, its headlamp crossing back and forth across the glamorous façade of Bob’s.
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