Shelly and Drooples -- A West Philly Romance

I sensed there was something different about her the first time we met, at one of those wild West Philly afterparties -- I think it was after Cassidy's show at the Abbraccio in the winter of 2003. Cassidy was into robots, Goths and double amputees at the time, fooling around with an idea which eventually became his best-selling coffee table book, "Wired Americans: Portraits of Americans with Robotic Prostheses".

Anyhow, there was something doleful about her, curled up by herself in the Boom Boom Room at Abbraccio -- well, by herself and her Bassett hound "Drooples", without whom she seldom left her apartment. She was renting a basement studio from Siano at the time over on Larchwood -- just enough space for her, her pet, her electric bass, her stamp collection and her rosewood humidors filled with tasty but illicit Cuban cigars.

We fell into conversation. I was at loose ends that winter, my wife having kicked me out temporarily for being unemployed, drunk and listening to my Philip Glass collection at loud and irregular intervals during the wee hours. Right away she touched some deep inner chord within me -- artistic souls straining for a heavenly connection to that starry dynamo in the skies, strangers in the night exchanging glances.

Despite the disparity in our ages -- she was only 19 and I was pushing 60 at the time, there was something in our souls that spoke to one another.

"I write poetry," I recall her saying.

I took a hit on the hibiscus bhong.

"Wow. Like that is so amazing. So do I!" I exclaimed. "Like, who are your main influences -- poetically speaking?"

"Mmmm -- well, an early influence was Rod McKuen -- you ever read 'Listen to the Warm'?"

"Oh, man. Psychic. He was my favorite poet in the late sixties -- after Allen Ginsberg, Paul Eluard, Arthur Rimbaud and Robert Lowell. Geez -- what's your favorite color?"

She took a long soulful drag on her Cohiba. She exhaled. She heaved a world-weary sigh.

After blowing a few smokerings, she finally replied, "Blue. I think. No, yellow."

I was touched by her ambivalence. At her age, I had not yet made up my mind about my favorite color, either.

At that moment, Rogerio Harmonica came stomping in, announcing "Last Call for Alcohol! Heh."

She regarded Rogerio for a moment, then pronounced, "That dude is like *so* uncool."

"Yeah," I said. "But still, he's got a business to run. Let's blow this popsicle stand. Your place or mine?"

She looked me squarely in the eyes and said, "Dude, do you even *have* a place? Word on the street is that your old lady kicked you out."

I hesitated, somewhat humiliated. It was a hard winter for me. I didn't need sympathy from some 19-year-old punk chick with a pierced tongue, navel and who knew what other body parts.

"Hey, " I replied. "We can go back to my humble squat. That is, if you don't mind spending a night with a 60-something loser."

She brightened immediately.

"Naw," she replied, "I can see that you're a bohemian at heart and a soul-mate, even if old and draggly. Let's go over to my wretched basement at Siano's and I'll show you some moves that are guaranteed to put some life into yer wretched old soul -- and body -- what's left of it. Ever heard of the Viennese Oyster?"

A wicked glint glinted in her 19-year-old visage.

I hesitated, not knowing what I was getting into, but on the other hand not really caring.

"Dudette, lead on, " I said, and we disappeared into the night.