Will She Play in Peoria?

Sometimes you have to ask the difficult questions, even when you're pretty sure you won't like the answers.

"Dolores," I said, "what's going on with your show at the Lucky Horseshoe? I thought you were supposed to open two months ago."

Harry, who was sitting next to her watching Valley of the Dolls, grabbed his bag of Milk Duds and rolled swiftly out of the room.

Dolores glared at me over her glasses.

"We do not speak of That Place in this house," she said.

I was startled. The 'Shoe is almost a second home for Dolores. The strippers have come to look upon her as a mother figure and the bartenders keep her special, monogrammed martini glass under the bar. Rumor has it that the owner, who hung her picture above the till in a heart-shaped frame, plans to retire to Bermuda after her tab is paid in full.

"What happened?"

"Artistic differences," she hissed. "Apparently my vision for the divertissements was too lofty for this cultural backwater. And I refused to compromise the integrity of my art."

"Eh?"

"She wanted to fly in on a cardboard moon singing 'Dis-moi que je suis belle,' " shouted Harry from the safety of the bedroom, "so they replaced her with a drag queen named Magic Wanda who pulls rabbits out of her -"

Dolores lunged for the bedroom door but Harry was too quick, and slammed it shut.

"Naturally I refuse to cast my pearls before swine, so the production is presently considering alternate venues in other localities."

"You mean..."

"A tour, yeah. Victorine is managing the whole thing. She knows all about it. She's been on the road since the fricking Eisenhower administration with that Opéra Brébis du Québec gig."

"As a makeup artist."

"She is an established entertainment professional. And for your information, she has already procured our transport and is in the process of engaging us at several fine Midwestern establishments."

"Us? You're taking the dancers, too?"

"Not exactly. The greedy bastards wouldn't work for tips so I had to make substitutions. Fortunately, we got so much talent right here at home."

It took a moment for that to sink in.

"The sock yarn?"

"Damn straight," said Dolores. "They already sing and dance. They're easy to pack and move. A few tucks in the costumes here and there and you'd never know the difference."

"I am not wearing a thong!" screamed Harry through the door. There was general shout of agreement from the yarn cupboard.

"Of course not, sweethearts," trilled Dolores, like a foghorn imitating a nightingale. "My primary concern is for your comfort and safety."

"Dolores," I said, "I don't know if the Midwest is ready for you singing 'You Make Me Feel Mighty Real' in front of a chorus line of half-naked sock yarn. Why not cut your losses and focus on one of your other projects?"

"Like running for president?"

"Well, that wasn't necessarily the one I was think-"

"You may be right," she said, pensively. "This country needs a firm hoof at the wheel."

"Actually, I was thinking maybe you could take another pottery class."

"You will please excuse me," she said, lying down on the sofa and closing her eyes. "I must ponder...art...politics...which? The agony of many talents. The agony."

Her cell phone rang.

"Victorine! Baby! What's the bon mot? Slow down, bitch, you know I can't understand your damn accent. The Giddy Buffalo Show Lounge and Motor Lodge...Kankakee...two nights...forty bucks and dinner...we'll take it!"

With a jubilant bleat she tossed the phone into the air, neatly beheading my bust of Meg Swansen.

I stared at her.

"It's a long time until the election," she said. "I gotta pack."