BABETTE

Babette was a waitress at The Headquarters, a big bar in Albuquerque, NM where I played regularly with a western swing band The Last Mile Ramblers, while couples danced the two-step and the schottische. Babette was a small woman, cute as a kitten. She carried trays heavy with drinks and didn't take any shit off anybody. I liked her a lot.

At some point, the bar was sold. The new management decided they could attract customers and make more money if they held wet tee shirt contests. This offended Babette's sensibilities (and mine) to say the least. It was truly demeaning. Halfway through the evening of music and dancing, a small child's pool was dragged out on the dance floor. Then young women who had signed up in advance for this indignity lined up by the stage. Each in turn stepped into the pool to be doused with pitchers of cold water which molded their tee shirts to their breasts. As I recall, the contestant who received the loudest applause won. Ugh.

One night, to the band's surprise, Babette did a walk on. But then came the really big surprise: before she could be doused with cold water, Babette turned her back on the audience, pulled down her jeans and mooned 350 dumbstruck customers. She quit waitressing at The Headquarters and I never saw her again.

Babette had given me a round faceted glass crystal. When I drove back to Ohio from New Mexico it kept me company, swinging from the rearview mirror of my Volkswagen. It's been hanging in my kitchen window for many years. This morning as I was making coffee, the crystal caught the sunlight and little rainbows danced all around. I sipped my coffee and said good morning to Babette.