Stanley Steamer Ch. 03: Frieda Tells

Dalea, California consisted of a general store with fuel pumps and lottery tickets, a shop promising auto repairs, the Desert Star tavern and pool hall, the closed church and art studios (yes, two of them, ever hopeful), and badly-decayed anonymous dumps. As well as total wrecks. Welcome to downtown.

Stan parked Waltzing Matilda on the bare, dusty street across from the red-tile-roofed adobe tavern, whose parking lot was surprisingly full. Or maybe not so surprisingly. One tavern within hundreds of square miles and not much else to do, so why not? The general store may be Dalea's commercial hub but the tavern was its real community center. Or its open-air drunk tank, maybe.

"This doesn't look like dahlia country," I said as we approached.

"Dalea, not dahlia, although desert dahlias exist. Ask Babs about them. But Dalea here... Old Dale and New Dale were mining towns over the hills, scraping salts from playas, those dried lake beds. Mustard-family plants that grow on alkali playa margins around Dale, and that suck-up heavy metals toxic to people and other animals, were named Dalea after the place. This Dalea doesn't see itself as the newest Dale. Someone just applied the name, ha ha. It's like calling a place Hemlock or Datura."

I expected Waltzing Matilda to provoke at least some comments but nobody was visible outdoors to witness our arrival. We braved the tavern's airlock-like entrance, a slight protection against blowing wind, sand, and debris.

"Do you think this works as a mantrap?"

"That depends on how deep the sand dunes get."

The Desert Star tavern was about as funky as I expected but better than most pulque cantinas, the kind of filthy bars even desperate whores avoid. Rusty decades of collected souvenirs and left-behinds hung from walls and ceiling beams -- vigas, really. The windows were small, thick, and pitted. The lights were dim but not TOO dim. The un-conditioned air was hot but not TOO hot. A big clock-like thermometer hung on a whitewashed adobe wall beside the bar. It read 89 F.

The bar, tables, and pool room all seemed well populated, with a surprising number of women, maybe a third of the rough patrons. Adjacent empty stools near the bar's end invited our butts to sit. Our raised hands invited sweating mugs to appear. The beer tap said Burgomeister. Was that still brewed?

Real or not, the mugs held cold, wet beer. Good enough.

I looked at the thermometer again after half a mug. Now it read 91 F. That was fast! Even with the cooling beer, I felt sweatier. My skimpy bikini top might not stay hidden under my thin tee much longer.

Others of the chattering patrons noticed the temperature rise. We heard conversations mention the heat, and then the needle's rise to 93 F. More beers were ordered; the barkeep was busy, and even busier when it hit 95 F.

Even more coolant did not suffice. Patrons complained and started removing outerwear. There go most shirts from both women and men. Most guys were now in sleeveless wife-beaters; some only wore thick or thin chest hair. Most women, of assorted shapes, sizes, and skin qualities, were down to bras of varied sizes, intentions, and conditions.

I eyed the fast-rising thermometer.

"Does it seem that hot to you?" I asked Stan.

"It ain't the heat, it's the humanity," he said. Gee, thanks.

The thermometer read 97F. More beer! Some of those bra straps loosened.

Now up to 99 F. More and more beer! Trousers and dresses were vanishing. Flesh was flashing and flapping.

101 F! The customers were a soggy lot, all but me and Stan. I mean, I was sweaty, but it did not feel THAT hot! We were only on our third cold mugs each, and not even droopy. The rest of the house seemed pretty damn drunk.

This was getting interesting.

"Hey Stan," I said, "this is getting interesting."

"Remember the ancient Chinese curse: May you live in interesting times."

Is there a deputy around in case it gets TOO interesting?

Or do the inmates run the asylum?

103 F! Now all tops were gone from men and women alike, everyone but us. They ordered more mugs, drank, sweated, gibbered, and bought and drank more beer, oh yes. And fondled a bit. An increasing bit of fondling, yes.

I do not know if it was a breakdown of the moral order, or regular party time, or what. Clothes were off of most everyone but us and the barkeep. Scents of lust almost overcame sour beer odors. Tits, cocks, fingers, and tongues were sucked. Noses and ears too, probably Naked women were bent over tables or laid out on their backs, most with a cock or two in each end and maybe some in hand, too. Enough hot fuckers reached for more beer to keep the bar in business but most kept at the sex. THEN more beer.

I feared to approach a restroom.

Stan and I exchanged glances. No, we did not at all want to participate. Who knows where these people have been?

105 F! How could they stand it? And how come WE did not feel it?

The barkeep brought us our fourth mugs. "You folks got a lot of catching-up to do, it seems like." He slapped-away nudes trying to drink straight from the tap.

Hello, people. You may have heard the word 'fuckathon'. This was indeed a fuckathon, a general orgy overrunning the premises. Good thing the furniture seemed sturdy. Most tables, booths, and pool greens seemed occupied by spit-roasted double-fucked women. Or men. Some appeared unconscious; others, merely fucked-out.

A six-woman oral daisychain managed to fit onto a pool table. But they were short. And their feet tended to hang off.

The barkeep returned. "You guys are not regulars or locals. You won't be back here. You won't tell my secret trick." He slid the thermometer aside. Behind, a nook in the adobe wall held a lit votive candle. An industrial mercury thermometer with its sensor stuck through the wall said the outside air was 86 F.

"If I want to sell more beer, I light the candle. In winter, I put ice cubes in there, and I sell lots of whiskey to warm-up folks. Then I crank up the fuel-oil stove, get it nice and toasty in here, you bet. Everyone gets drunk and overheated, and then they go naked, and they all fuck, too. There's not much else out here to pass the time." He wiped a mug clean and slapped away another naked would-be beer thief. "It's life in a small town, I guess."

Stan left a big tip. We escaped while we could.

=====

Tilly waltzed us back west to Rancho Relaxo, the sunset in our eyes, just eight days after we started this excursion. We showered and shined, and roasted a frozen pizza, washed down with boxed red wine. Then we crawled into his big bed, sucked and fucked, and slept. Tomorrow would wait.

"Hey, you guys are back! How did it go?"

Lorna leapt at us. We hugged and kissed her, Stan first, then me, because she had introduced us. Then Stan devoted his attention to her. She almost wilted under his focus.

"Many great shots, I think," I said, once she was sufficiently alert. We hugged in a triangle before disengaging in case any suits happened in.

I told Lorna, "I am going to monopolize one bay of your photo lab for a week or two. I have so much 135 and 220 film to process, so many prints, and hot color chemistry - all that stuff. I may need a dedicated burro or slave to haul me between my room, the lab, the employee cafeteria - or can I have food sent to the lab? And a cot installed? Anyway, I'm booked."

"I have a run to San Diego this weekend," Stan told Lorna. "A client is frantic. That will keep me busy during the days - but the Casa Blanca street festival is going day and night. Want to come in Heidi? Just you, or Mariana too?"

"Mari has weekend shift and I'm dying to go so YES!" She hugged and kissed him yet more. No, I guess I was not interrupting anything. If my photos were as good as I expected, I would have this internship tied down.

Stan jacked his per diem up to twelve-hundred per, plus whatever expenses he could pad. But that is not too bad, not by New Jersey standards.

What would Babs look like next time?

And would I get any more field assignments with Stan?

Author's note: This story by Hypoxia is Smurf is copyright (c) 2018. I tried to get most factual details right but so what? My eyes are severely damaged but I think I caught most typos. This might be the series finale, or maybe more will happen at Rancho Relaxo and vicinity. The next series might be Steamer Gold. (Named for a Petaluma pub.) If you like this tale, join the 1% and VOTE!