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Part II of a trilogy.

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It is claimed that in 1878 a rancher in Marfa invented the modern condom by using a sheep’s lower intestine.  By the time the concept made it to Fort Stockton it was further refined by actually removing the intestine from the sheep.

In much the same way, those who made a habit of gathering outside the sea foam green and creme 1948 Vagabond to catch glimpses of the scantily clad couple doing the tango inside conjured up the courage to move closer and actually ask permission to watch.  The handsome couple, not unaware of the growing crowds hidden behind bushes and pecan trees in the distance, was amiable to staging demonstrations for those so inclined.  The downside for the crowd was that the couple’s attire was less revealing and more modest.  However, the view was much closer and easier to appreciate.

By fall, the routines were performed on a fairly steady schedule and had incorporated not just the limited living room of the trailer, but the covered patio just outside.  More demanding dances were known to stretch out to the area behind the Vagabond, looking over the bluff.  In the bright sunlight, with the sounds of Miguel Calo with singers Podestá or Beron “Al compas Del Corazon” blaring from the hi-fi inside the living room of the trailer, the passion of the couple dancing in the grass outside was surpassed only by the visual representation of the music they were able to convey.

Backlit by the clouds behind them, the reflections of their sweaty bodies in the shiny black paint of the Cadillac provided a different perspective, particularly her red flowing dress raised to reveal her leg wrapped around his as he grasped her from behind and guided her graceful movements.  A debate began as to whether Alessandra danced with undergarments, or commando.  Some swore they had seen proof of the latter, others nodded along, but felt deprived of actually having seen it with their own eyes.

When the numbers grew, it became the norm for Nicholas, the owner of the Cadillac woody, to place his inverted fedora on the corner of the picnic table just off the patio next to the Vagabond.  The crowd gathered was then free to donate whatever resources they felt appropriate for the entertainment they’d just witnessed.  His partner, Alessandra,  placed a large clear glass vessel filled with fresh fruit, crushed ice, and a mixture that nobody could identify for sure, but hints of  wine, possibly gin, sugar, and other ingredients.  The cold contents of the large jar in the heat of the humid outdoors would cause the jar to sweat profusely, beads of condensation running down the full height of the jar and puddling on the pine table below.  The same could be said of those who watched them dance.

The couple from out of town noted that the lower the level the contents of the jar went, the higher the level of the donations thrown into the fedora.  There was something to be said for ‘cause and effect’.

As people began to take long lunches and parking became an issue for the Flamingo Trailer Park whenever the couple performed, city fathers began to take note.  Townsfolk began taking longer lunches, sometimes not even returning after lunch at all.  It dawned on business leaders that perhaps an opportunity was being missed.

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A delegation was sent to the Flamingo Trailer Park to discuss the possibilities of the pair performing their craft in a way that would benefit them and the town in a more structured manner.  As they watched Alessandra replenish the clear jar with ice and liquid and pour them each a colored aluminum tumbler of the contents, Nicholas mentioned a possible method that would benefit everyone involved.  “Dance lessons,” he said.  “People want to be able to do what we do, rather than just watch us.”

Under his breath, the mayor disputed that notion, knowing full well that he’d rather be a spectator to the event himself rather than a participant in something beyond his capabilities.  Yet, there were possibilities in what Nicholas was suggesting.  As the jar was drained and Alessandra stepped into the Vagabond to shed her damp costume and slip into something far fresher and cooler, discussions continued.  She’d accidentally left the door to the trailer ajar and the mayor and several of the business leaders could not help but admire her finer assets as the red gown fell to the floor and a small pair of cotton shorts and thin white linen blouse took its place.  The matter of whether or not she performed commando was settled once and for all, much to their pleasure.

It was decided they would offer dance lessons at the Lucky Lady, upstairs in the big empty room above the bar that used to be where gambling and sporting women could be had, two of Fort Stockton’s priciest  pastimes.  Lessons would be available four days a week, live performances on two days.  On Sundays the entire operation would be shuttered in deference to the Maker of All Things Good.  Admission would be charged, a 60/40 split, with the business consortium getting 40 percent, out of which they would pay for the space above the Lucky Lady.  The fedora would still be available for tips.  The icy jar of sweet libations would only be available for dance lessons, as the crowd would be thirsty.  During performances, they would have to go to the bar downstairs.

It seemed an agreement that worked out well for all the parties involved.

“Of course, you’ll have to cease practicing outside the trailer,” the mayor stipulated.  We can’t allow the cow to graze free while we’re charging for the milk over at the barn.”  It was not lost on anyone who listened to him that his eyes were focused directly on Alessandra’s linen blouse which was barely concealing  bumper guards that rivaled those of the Cadillac sedan.  The metaphor was not lost, but neither was the logic.  

“Should we be inclined to practice at home, the blinds of the trailer will be lowered and closed.”  Nicholas was not surprised at the coarseness of the group, but chuckled to himself at their general disregard for the true art involved.

And so began a diversion in the fall of 1948 that would stir the masses.  The fact that city fathers had accepted and normalized the practice, even subsidizing its enjoyment made it acceptable.  The acceptance made it grow, although there were those who didn’t enjoy it nearly as much once it was no longer frowned upon.

The dance lessons started out with only a few willing to try.  After learning that one-on-one instruction was available, however, couples signed up left and right.  Even single folks were signing up and taking their chances with whomever else might be in attendance.  

Before long people were doing the tango in their own living rooms, but in house coats and overalls and to songs on the radio by Eddy Arnold and Jimmy Wakely that were nothing like those they’d heard on the Hi-Fi at the trailer park, or upstairs at the Lucky Lady.  The performances were selling out, the stage getting smaller and smaller to allow for more seating.  The smaller stage meant being closer to the performers.  Men talked about how they could actually smell Alessandra’s perfume as she passed by; women would swear that Nicholas had winked at them when he glanced up while dipping his partner in a dramatic climax to a particularly daring number.

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The police chief noted that parking was becoming a danger, streets around the Lucky Lady all the way to the square clogged with sedans, convertibles, and pickup trucks.  The fire marshal was sure occupancy codes were being ignored.  The mayor felt like money was being left on the table.  The subject was brought up at a town council meeting behind closed doors, possibilities becoming brainstormed to solve all the immediate issues.

The following Sunday, the only day Nicholas and Alessandra had off, a committee made their way to the Flamingo Trailer Park.  The group of dignitaries walked past the wood slathered Cadillac sedan and towards the door of the Vagabond.  As they walked up to the trailer, they thought they heard muffled sounds too difficult to identify.  Very guttural.  Some thought a foreign language was being spoken.  Others thought Alessandra might have been speaking in tongues, not that anyone from Fort Stockton went in for that sort of thing.

The mayor knocked on the door.  Loudly.  And then again.  The trailer seemed to rock violently for a short period as those gathered outside the door waited.  A scream was heard, though as through a pillow so it was muffled and somewhat unidentifiable.  And then, everything was silent and the trailer was still.  Nicholas opened the door a moment or two later looking strained, yet satisfied.  

“Gentlemen?”

The group assembled at the door expected to be invited in, but the offer was not extended.

“We’d like a moment of your time, Mr. Nicholas.”  The mayor fumbled for words.  “Need to discuss a little matter.”

Nicolas stepped out of the dark trailer and into the sunlight.  The inside of the trailer was musky and raw.  Nicholas was dressed only in boxer shorts.  He made his way to the picnic table and extended his hand in an offer for them to sit.  He was sweaty.  When the air hit the perspiration on his skin it gave him goosebumps, despite the relative warmth of the air they sat in.  The men from town glanced at him as they sat down on the benches on either side of the table, embarrassed at their own unworthiness.

The men removed their hats and looked up when they heard Alessandra open the door of the Vagabond and step outside.  She wore only the thinnest cotton robe that ended just below the top of her legs, just beyond their dreams.  She carried with her the tall clear jar, filled with ice and cold fruity liquid refreshment.  As she bent over to set it on the table, the breeze caught her robe and blew it open slightly.  Her hair was slightly mussed, her lipstick smudged.  

Nobody noticed either one.

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