Free The Bette Davis Club by Jane Lotter Page A

say.
    The bartender hesitates, as though considering whether I’ve requested some sort of cocktail. Then she takes my meaning. “Right,” she says. She grins. “Had a gal in here today who claimed she only rode bareback. Course, she drank so many dreamy monkeys, in the end she fell off her mount. Her compadres had to carry her to her room.”
    I smile. “And what, may I ask, is a dreamy monkey?”
    The bartender leans in, as though sharing a confidence. “It’s a dog’s breakfast,” she says thoughtfully. “You throw everything in the blender—vodka, crème de cacao, ice-cream, bananas, the whole taquito . A dreamy monkey is like a boozy milkshake for kids, for young folks who ain’t got the hang of liquor.”
    Myself, I long ago got the hang of liquor.
    “Pass on the milkshake,” I say. “But I have just crossed the desert, and I’d like a large martini.”
    “You bet. Gin or vodka?”
    I rather like this flat-chested bartender and her cowgirl ways. My leather saddle creaks underneath me as I settle in. “Gin,” I say. “Gordon’s, if you have it.”

    Half an hour later, the bartender and I are pals. Her name is Ruby. She lives in a house out in the desert with her partner, Vera. Together, Ruby and Vera own a horse, a dog, and several cats.
    Ruby is friendly and easy to talk to and (I’m beginning to realize) possibly thinks I’m gay. Well, why not? After all, I’m convinced she is. Not to mention I’m sitting in a bar that for some reason is chockablock with talkative females, every one of whom appears to be homosexual.
    In less than a day, I’ve been mistaken first for a newlywed and now a lesbian. What other surprises await me, I can’t imagine.
    “Is it always this busy?” I ask Ruby over the noise.
    “Nope. We do a good business, but this”—with a sweep of her hand she indicates the packed room—“is because of the Dinah. That and, you know, the tournament.”
    I don’t know. What Dinah? What tournament?
    “Course, they changed the name a while back,” Ruby says. She mixes a pitcher of margaritas, draws several beers, and continues conversing with me, all without breaking her stride. “It used to be named for Dinah Shore. But anymore they call it the Kraft Nabisco Championship, or some such thing. You know about it, right?”
    “Afraid not,” I say.
    She looks at me like she’s trying to figure out if I’m kidding. “It’s world famous,” she says. “It’s the Masters of women’s golf. You honestly never heard of it?”
    “Sorry,” I say.
    She narrows her eyebrows, like she still doesn’t believe me. “They hold it a few minutes from here, in Rancho Mirage. And every year, same time as the tournament, there’s Dinah Shore Weekend here in Palm Springs, and I know you’ve heard of that. The Dinah is the biggest get-together of dykes you ever saw, the biggest lesbian party in the world. Last year, fifteen thousand gals showed up.”
    While I’m digesting this piece of news, Ruby leans toward me and says in a low voice, “Don’t tell nobody, but I’d work the Dinah for nothing.”
    I laugh. Ruby continues filling me in. “Every gal who comes to Palm Springs during Dinah Shore Weekend loves golf or women. Or both.” She looks me up and down. “You golf?”
    “Sorry, no.”
    She gives a sly smile, and I realize I’ve just confirmed for her that I’m gay.
    I decide to change the subject. I compliment Ruby on her cowboy shirt with the smile pockets. (You don’t often see those in New York, unless you’re watching the DVD of Midnight Cowboy .)
    “Thanks,” she says. “Vera bought it for my birthday. It’s from one of the used clothing stores, quite a few of them in town.”
    Ruby eyes my own outfit. “If you like clothes,” she says, “you might want to visit the shops. There’s one place, near here—Mommie Dearest. It’s the best of the bunch. They got gowns and dresses that belonged to movie stars, millionaires, celebrities. Everything in there is