Ricky and the Green Cowboy Boots
Eleven on Sunday morning and Ricky is not feeling too well. The truth is he is a disgrace. After pledging to be abstemious for a while, last night was Eddie’s stag night and of course things got out of hand. Eddie Bloomfield is a popular chap and his intended, the very lovely Janie Klonk, who by the way could not wait to gain the Bloomfield surname, was perfectly suited to someone as nice as Eddie. Being so popular the stag night venue was packed with every friend and family member you could name. The beer was free flowing and copious amounts had been funded by Eddie’s uncle who was single and bursting for the opportunity to indulge his only nephew. A combination that was impossible for Ricky to resist.
Anyway as expected Ricky had absorbed more than his fair share, so much so his drinking fraternity had reinstated his nickname, Sponge, that had been relaxed due to his recent moderation. The result. At two in the morning he flung himself on his bed, ignored the rapidly spinning ceiling and comatose into oblivion without removing any clothing or other items, not knowing or caring how he had arrived home. He woke with a thirst to drain a waterhole, head that had been thumped by a baseball bat and a stomach gurgling and almost out of control. He got up, went to the kitchen with a most unusual gait and feeling of insecurity in his momentum.
Drinking a pint of tap water he looked down at his feet to be greeted by a pair of shiny green McCreedy and Schreiber, hand-tooled, natural leather, extremely expensive cowboy boots, that reached nearly up to his knees with his faded Demins tucked inside. They had two inch heels. To make matters worse the toes were clad in a fancy silver cap with the motif of a rearing stallion on the top giving them a kind of glitzy, showbiz feel. He tried but could not get them off. They were incredibly tight and way too small. There were a host of questions spinning around his already spinning head but with his memory of events in tatters, he settled on just one. How did he end up with these?
He had gone out at six to meet Patrick and Mike for a couple of aperitifs so to speak. Slammed the front door wearing his new red baseball boots that rubbed, jeans, black tee shirt and black leather bomber jacket. He was walking, not intending to drink much, but to be safe, just in case, he wanted to eliminate the temptation to drive home in a hopeless condition. The Fox was about a twenty minute walk so he stepped up the pace and headed down his street.
The red, twenty five year old rust bucket pulled up next to him.
“Hey Ricky where’re you off to so rapidly?” This is Stevie, a mechanic who excels at keeping cars on the road that should have been retired years before. He is the master of cheap motoring. His usual blond mop, thick and wild giving him an unkept look that belied the fact that he ironed his underpants and socks.
“That’s a smart looking motor Stevie. Is it safe?”
“Sure Ricky it’s made of solid steel with a veneer of rust. No depreciation here.”
“I’m sure there isn’t. I’m off to the Fox to meet Patrick and Mike. Want to come?” A smart ploy to cadge a lift.
“It’s Eddie’s stag do tonight isn’t it? I’m going but I’m popping over to Mum’s for dinner and will leave the car there. So no is the answer. Can drop you off though if you want. It’s on the way.”
Ricky hops in and sits on the collapsed red faux leather passenger seat.
“Not so comfy this limousine of yours. I hear there’s something special booked for tonight. Phil the best man has a reputation to uphold.”
“Yeah but don’t know what. It’s a closely guarded secret.”
Stevie drops Ricky outside the pub. The old man sitting on the worn out wooden bench inside the bus shelter reading the posted flyers, call Madame Fifi for a good time etc, looks up as he hears the bus coming. Wearing an old grey suit with extra wide lapels and a black kipper tie, he is struggling to stand as the bus pulls up to the kerb. Ricky says “Can I help you?” and the man looks at him and smiles. Ricky takes his arm and guides him to the bus door making sure he gets up the step and into a seat.
“Thank you son” he says “I don’t go out much but this trip is important.”
“Take care” replies Ricky and heads towards the pub.
As he is climbing the steps to the main door a good looking, tall girl with long dark hair and wearing a blue leather full length coat and blue high heels comes up next to him. Ricky opens the door.
“Why thank you. A rare gentleman indeed.”
“As maybe but you have the looks to deserve some special treatment.” says Ricky.
“Mmmm. That’s nice.” She replies.
“Hi Ricky.” Les the landlord stood behind the long solid oak, highly polished newly fitted bar with fully stocked glass and oak shelves behind. The extraordinary range of bottles staring at his cocktail drinking customers seducing them with expectant liquid pleasure. His chubby smiling face exuding a feeling of cheerfulness that infects all around him. He is wearing a trademark multi-coloured waistcoat, the type that requires dark glasses to look at. Les, a product of the crash and a discarded financial wizard who sunk his redundancy payment into the pub and turned around a failing business. That was ten years ago.
“Hey Les you’re extra cheerful today. I like the renovated bar.”
“It’s happy hour Ricky. In an hour I’ll have a frown. Yes and thanks for all your hard work to get the bar sorted. Pint?”
“Sure why not and get the Lady what she wants.”
“I would love a Martini Cocktail not too strong though, I’m driving later. I’m Kate by the way.”
“Nice to meet you Kate.” said Ricky as Mike and Pat crashed through the door with their usual flamboyant entrance.
“Well I’ve got to go. Thanks for the drink Ricky and maybe I’ll see you around sometime.” And Kate left, leaving the three of them cracking jokes and pre-evening drinking until they left at eight to head for the venue. Barkers the nightclub at the back of the High Street.
Arriving at eight thirty, “Hello boys it’s the function room for you lot.” Big Joe the bouncer standing at the entrance and looking impressive. A huge man, after superman the next Man of Steel. Very smart in a dinner suit and bright red bow tie. Six foot six of muscular bulk and a face to scare any Granny. Lives with his Mum and breeds budgies. “In you go. It’s all paid for” and “keep it tidy.” he shouts after them.
They go through the main ballroom and bar which is filling up. Ricky sends a “Hi there” glance at Jill who is serving and busy talking nicely but feeling agitated to a guy who wanted a coke but got a beer when he had asked for a beer but was convinced he asked for a coke. Jill just gave him a coke and waved at Ricky. Ricky went over “Hey Jill the punters revolting again?”
“Yeah. He’s a regular, a beer drinker who's the driver tonight so wanted a coke. Ordered a beer through habit. But no problem he got his coke. It's your lucky night. Have a beer on the house.”
Ricky arrives in the function room which is set up with round tables and white table cloths, lots of chairs, food and a small stage. Rock music provides a loud background. Sees Phil who is wearing a DJ with bow tie. The compere look. “Hey Phil what’s the entertainment tonight? Something special is the rumour. Not a stripper again I hope. How many are coming?”
“A man of a thousand questions. Hi Ricky it’s a secret. All I will say is it’s sexy and entertaining. Something different. And about sixty will be here including family members. There’s Eddie’s Dad over there with Eddie’s uncles.”
Ricky wanders off to find Eddie who is sporting his best drinking outfit with plenty of slack and comfort.
“Hi Eddie, all ready for the big day. Two weeks to go. Is that right?”
“That’s it Ricky. Two weeks. Can’t wait, it’s all a bit of a dream. There’s loads of drink and food so get stuck in.”
So Ricky does just that and along with Patrick, Mike, and a host of others is falling over drunk by midnight and the show had not even started. Then Phil gets up on the stage.
“Gentlemen.” He shouts. “Gentlemen quiet please, QUIET. Come on QUIET you rabble. It’s now time for tonight’s entertainment. Gentlemen I give you Sexy Suzie the Singing Cowgirl.”
On stage comes a tall good looking girl with long blond hair in full cowgirl regalia. Her green leather frill edged skirt is so high up her long legs that her frilly white knickers are showing. The pale pastel green blouse is undone almost to her navel exposing the inside edges of her white frilly bra and just the right amount of flesh. She has a wide white leather belt with silver inlay and buckle around her waist. A light green Bolo tie with a silver naked lady Bolo around her neck. A dark green Texas style hat with a silver band is perched on her bushed up hair on the back of her head and kept in place by a green tassel on a cord swept under her chin. The bright green cowgirl boots coming up to her knees complete what is a very sexy picture.
She plugs in her electric guitar and with the backing of a drum machine runs through a quite exotic routine of western songs to the enjoyment of the entire crowd. The whole experience suggestive and so sexy, far better than any stripper that usually attends these functions. Ricky watching in his drunken stupor sees but fails to take in much of the performance.
So Sunday about three in the afternoon Ricky has recovered a bit having had breakfast, well lunch really, porridge, toast and lots of very hot, very black coffee. The sort of things that work a wonderful hangover cure for him. Now he is in a better condition he has managed to get the boots off. Then the doorbell rings, it’s Kate from the pub with his baseball boots hanging round her neck, laces tied together and a red canvas bag with long rope handles bulging and heavy looking.
“Hey Kate, great to see you. Come in. How did you get my address?”
“From Phil last night. He was the only sober one left.”
“Last night. I did not see you there. At a stag do?”
“I was on stage. I’m a singing Cowgirl in my spare time. It pays the rent.”
“Wow, I did see a bit of that. Then I’m a blank.”
“Well you’d lost your shoes and it was raining. Phil was taking you home in a cab. I wanted to see you again, you were so charming at the pub, so a good way was to come and get my boots. Better than a might or might not be seen note. Phil stuck them on your feet, a bit of a struggle though. But they’re old so have that stretched over time that makes them a floppy fit style. They were my Mums when she was a Line Dance Queen. Then Phil took you home and gave me your address. I found your baseball boots under a table.”
“I’d taken them off. They were hurting my feet.”
“So there you have it and hello Ricky I’m Kate and I’ve come to cook you a hearty dinner to blow away last night’s over indulgence. Oh and to get my boots back.”
So that is how Ricky properly met what might become the love of his life. Who knows. He has a way to go yet.