Let's Misbehave

by Christy Hartman... Ruth’s tush had barely touched the seat when a tall, mustachioed man slid into the open chair. “Do you believe in love at first sight? Or should I walk by again?”

“Lazy-Daisy,” Ruth Rhodes whispered through the small window in the wooden door.

“Try again, Sugar,” the voice on the other side prompted.

“Don’t be a wet blanket, that’s the word I was given.” Ruth glanced around the alley. A shadowy figure lurking near the trash cans started lurching towards her, flat cap pulled low. 

“Let me in. Someone out here’s givin’ me the heebie-jeebies.”

“Daisy was yesterday. Gimme me tonight’s password or move along, Toots.”

“Hotsy-totsy Hannah.” A deep voice said from behind. “And she’s with me.”

The door opened and Ruth walked through, followed by the gent with the cap.  In the dim light of the speakeasy, the young man looked quite dapper in his three-piece suit. His features were unremarkable until he flashed a wide smile that conjured two deep dimples and lit up his hazel eyes.

“Thanks, pal.” Ruth admired the man for a moment, then scanned the dimly-lit room for the stage. Bottles lined the shelves behind a high-polished mahogany bar. Tinkling laughter of women, dolled up in glitzy tasseled dresses mixed with the deep chortles of the men outnumbering them three to one.

“My name’s George. Can I buy you a drink?” 

“I appreciate the help but, on the level, I’m only here for the music.” Ruth waved to a beautiful blonde fiddling with a mic stand on stage. She spotted an empty front-row table and brushed past George.

“No problem ma’am, enjoy your evening.” George said to the back of her flipped-out bob.

*

Earlier that day Paula had burst into Ruth’s one-room apartment, vibrating with excitement.

“Belle Baker has impetigo!”

“Well, bully for Belle Baker. Why are you so excited about it?” Ruth twirled the ends of her short black hair around curling tongs.   

“Because, Tony’s gonna let me fill in at the Struggle Buggy. Tonight!” Paula grabbed the tongs from Ruth, jumped on the bed and began to belt ‘I Wanna Be Loved By You’ into them.

“Might want to save that one for the end of the night, kitten, or the boys won’t be able to contain themselves.” 

“Come watch me perform?” Paula asked.

“You know I hate those places.  Nothing but lecherous men whose mommas told them how handsome they were too often and who think every short skirt is an invitation.” 

“You’ve sent more than one man scurrying away with his tail between his legs.  Please come.”

“Alright, as long as you promise not to sing ‘Makin Whoopee.’ Ruth retrieved her tongs and resumed curling her hair.

“I’ll make coffee. It’s going to be a long night.” Paula grabbed the kettle and danced around the small table singing ‘Honeysuckle Rose’.

*

Ruth’s tush had barely touched the seat when a tall, mustachioed man slid into the open chair.

“Do you believe in love at first sight? Or should I walk by again?” 

“Go ahead Palooka, I need practice hitting a moving target.” Ruth didn’t take her eyes off Paula who was singing ‘Let’s Misbehave’ on top of the baby grand.

We’re all alone, no chaperone

Can get our number

The world’s in slumber

Let’s misbehave

Ruth’s admirer did not take the hint and flagged down a waitress. “Two Gin Rickeys for me and my bird.”  

He pulled out a silver case, lit a ciggy, and slid the case back into his jacket pocket.

“No thanks, I don’t smoke.” Ruth said dryly.

“I didn’t ask you.” 

“Never been accused of being a wise head, have you?” Ruth sighed. This one wasn’t even entertaining.

“You know, you look like my next girlfriend.” He pushed onwards.

“And you look exactly like the guy who was too stupid to walk away 30 seconds ago.” Ruth glared at her admirer. Her suspicious brown eyes met his leering blues. 

The world’s in slumber

Let’s misbehave

“Why are you staring at me?” Ruth narrowed her eyes.

“There’s something wrong with my eyes. I can’t take them off you.” His bushy brows waggled and moved together like two caterpillars preparing to fight.

“Such a shame because mine work fine and I can’t see you getting anywhere with me.” Ruth’s lips pursed before she turned her attention back to the stage.

There’s something wild about you child

That’s so contagious

“I’m Frankie,” he said.

“What?” 

“Oh, I thought I heard you ask my name?” 

“I didn’t.” Ruth responded flatly.

Let’s be outrageous 

Let’s misbehave

Two Gin Rickeys were delivered to the table.  Frankie placed a meaty hand on her thigh, drank down half his glass and bellowed, “Why don’t we get drunk and make some bad decisions?”

“You already are, and you just did.” Ruth slowly poured the second cocktail into Frankie’s lap.

When Adam won Eve’s hand

He wouldn’t stand for teasin’

He didn’t care about those apples out of season

Frankie leapt out of his seat, blue eyes blazing. “I knew I shouldn’t waste my time and a perfectly fine drink on such a bearcat.”

“You didn’t think I was so bad a few moments ago.” Ruth looked him up and down, lingering on his wet lap. “You spilled a little something. You should go clean yourself up.”

Frankie slammed his fist on the table, drawing the attention of the couples shimmying and swinging each other around the dance floor.

“I can see you have things under control, but perhaps I can show your friend the way out?”

George had suddenly appeared at the table.

“That would be lovely. I don’t want to miss any of Paula’s performance.” 

They say the spring

Means just one thing to little lovebirds

“And, once you’ve taken out the trash, perhaps I could borrow a quarter?” Ruth asked.

“What for?” he replied.

“My mother told me to call home when I find a decent guy.” Ruth winked as George pushed Frankie towards the door, with a tip of his hat in her direction.

Let’s misbehave

Let’s misbehave

🩷🩷🩷

Christy Hartman pens short fiction from her home between the ocean and mountains of Vancouver Island Canada. She writes about the chasm between love and loss and picking out the morsels of magic in life’s quiet moments. Christy has been published in Elegant Literature, Bright Flash Literary Review, Fairfield Scribes, and others. When not writing, Christy devotes her time to whichever old or injured rescue dog has wormed their way into heart, currently an anxious Red Heeler named Cyrus. Her other hobby is cooking vegan meals and trying to convince her husband they taste just like chicken.