Alexa Babin

We had spent the better part of the day on the lake, and I smelled like it. My hair was up in a tight bun, with a little brown tail hanging down in the back. It was longer than usual. I desperately needed a cut, but there was scarcely any time to sit in a chair long enough to see it done. That’s not why I was there, anyway. Hot Springs was my small town getaway, my creative retreat. My boss was in Barcelona with family for the week, which was, to him, a crucible, since it’s not a part of his cherished, regular routine, so I worked from the lake instead of my apartment. I was keeping slightly less than full-time hours, given that he was not regularly accessible for business. Mom had suggested I ask Mrs. Pam about a salon in town — how fun it would be to return to Los Angeles with a fresh haircut! — but I couldn’t be convinced. My time was precious! I didn’t start work until noon every day, to be fair, but the mornings were my time. I wanted to spend them how I wanted to spend them. And on this particular trip, that did not include a haircut.

The three of us sat in a booth against the back wall at The Red Oak Fillin’ Station, which is exactly the type of joint the name makes it out to be — a place to fill your belly with the most delectable of southern cuisine. No frills, no reason to get dressed up, just classic, melt-in-your-mouth southern food — and a lot of it, at that. The Fillin’ Station had quite the selection, spread across a giant plastic six page menu. Each time we went, you could have rolled me out of there on a stretcher, my stomach bursting, my soul equally as nourished. We had our favorite waitress that night, a petite, middle-aged blonde woman who never stopped moving and never looked tired. She was always so light on her feet, but with the purpose and precision of a mountain cat. I can’t remember her name (shame on me). Mom has a theory she’s a working single mom, making ends meet by taking back-to-back shifts at our favorite local establishment, and doing it all with a cheery disposition. I sat there watching our waitress hustle around, beaming with pride at her ability to provide for her family in that way. Whether any of Mom’s theory is true or not, I’d like to believe it. Maybe one day we’ll just ask her and put it all to rest.

Dad asked for the check as our favorite waitress cleared our plates. I had eaten nearly every bite of my chicken fried steak, homemade mashed potatoes, and green beans. The gravy might have been the best part. Or maybe the way the fried bits flaked off the steak like delicate petals of a flower. Like I said, the place knows how to make a good southern meal. You can imagine how full I was after a supper like this. I was starved when we arrived, but on this night, I didn’t have room for dessert at the end, which is astounding considering how divine their cheesecake is — velvety, creamy, with the perfect amount of crunch in its reliably fresh crust.

“I think going home to spruce up would take too long,” Dad said.

“You don’t know anybody, and it’s not like people get dressed up to go,” Mom chimed in.

It was true on both accounts. Going back to the condo would kill our momentum. Well, as much momentum as you can have after a gut-splitting meal like that, and The Ohio Club was not exactly a place that maintained a level of decorum beyond our present state. Might I remind you, my present state was my lake stench, hair in a bun, t-shirt, running shorts, sandals, and no mascara. The lack of mascara is worth noting, given how short my eyelashes naturally are. Me without mascara is me with a naked face. It’s not all that bad, and frankly, I don’t mind sporting this look, but it’s not typically how I’d show up to a bar, even in a small town. I knew if we went home, I’d want to shower and change clothes and fix my hair, but young as the night was, I was afraid Dad wouldn’t last long. If we went home now, it was over. And I really wanted to see Donna.

“I agree. Let’s just go—it’s not like I’m trying to catch a man tonight. I leave tomorrow!” I replied.

They must have wanted to see Donna, too, because in a moment we were off, sliding out of the black booth on the back wall and piling into the car amidst the freshly fallen darkness of 8:15pm on an Arkansas Saturday night.

Parking at the Ohio Club in downtown Hot Springs is always a bit of a toss up. While it’s not a huge downtown, most of the popular spots are located on one main street. I say that like I’ve been to the Ohio Club many times in my life, but really, this was only my third visit. Never, though, had I witnessed the bravado of Donna and the house band. After driving up and down Central Avenue, we landed a prime spot just a couple blocks up from the bar. A similar parking blessing happened the weekend before, and I was beginning to think the Ohio Club couldn’t help but welcome our presence more than it did for other guests. We strolled up the street, eyeing the familiar bouncer. He was a stocky little man with ape-ish long arms, rippling with veins and muscle under his tanned skin. I looked down at my outfit.

“Well, I doubt anyone will care, right?” My needy, affirmation hungry plea rang out once more.

“Oh girl, it’s fine. People dress in all sorts of ways in here,” Mom said.

Coming from Mom that meant something. She wasn’t one to hide feelings of disapproval surrounding public appearance. My mind was put to ease. I couldn’t put my finger on it, because a small part of me really didn’t care how I looked, but the mythology surrounding Donna made me want to appear worthy of being in her presence. It sounds silly now, but in the moment, I wanted to honor her, even in such a small way as my fashionable attire.

Dad handed the bouncer a twenty to cover each of our five dollar covers, and the bill fell through the man’s hand. It floated down like a feather on a soft breeze as he quickly swiped at it in mid-air, his small glasses perched on the edge of his nose, tracking it. His shirt looked like it could rip right open, revealing his bulky arms. As the bill neared the ground, I saw the loose fit of his jeans. He was a top-heavy man, nonetheless, not someone I’d want to get in a fight with, even considering his small stature.

“Almost had it,” he said with a smile. I could tell he was a man who could laugh at himself. I picked the bill up off the ground and handed it to him. He gave my Dad a five in change, and stamped each of our hands with a little “c” in black ink. It looked like the copyright symbol. We walked in and got seated at a table in the corner right by the front window. Feeling the chill of the air conditioning, Mom went back to the car to grab her jacket (I smartly already had one on, because intense A/C always seems to attack both of us), and Dad and I slid into the booth against the wall.

“I’m going to run up to the hostess and put us on the list for a table upstairs. Be right back!” I left Dad’s side and scooted through the space between the tables and the bar stools to get to the stairs. I could see the hostess at the top—it was the same young girl from the weekend before, wearing the same well-fitting bell-bottom jeans. You could spot her flouncy, smooth blonde hair from a mile away. I think she knew that, too. The previous weekend when we met, I had guessed we were about the same age. We’d chatted about how she’d just moved to Hot Springs from Denver and was still settling in. It was the type of conversation you’d remember having, even with all the people who come in and out of the bar in the span of a week. And yet, she had no idea who I was. Maybe if I’d referenced the conversation, or had my hair down, or been wearing mascara, she would have remembered. But I was a stranger to her then. Just another person in the bar, asking for a seat. She asked for a phone number for the waiting list, which thankfully included only us. I gave her Dad’s number and his name popped up. She looked at me inquisitively, as if to say, Kenn, is that you?

“Yep, that’s it,” I told her. “Just us on the list, huh?”

“Yeah, it shouldn’t be long,” she said.

I said thank you, and I descended the stairs, back to the corner table up front by the door. Scooting next to Dad, I shared my news, “She had no idea who I was. It’s got to be the hair.” I fingered my bun, the culprit.

“I told you, just take your hair down! It’ll look fine.”

“It’ll be all kinky, and it’s still a little wet from being in the lake.”

“Who cares?”

I did as he suggested and gave my mane a shake and a fluff with my fingers.

“See! It looks great!” Dad was being a great cheerleader in this moment, but I wasn’t sure I trusted him. He likes people to feel good. Mom walked in the door, slipping her long, slender arms into her black jacket, saved from the horrid air conditioning.

“Okay, how does your hair just come out of a wet bun looking that good, girl?” The fact that she immediately noticed made me crack a smile. Dad was telling the truth, after all.

I shrugged. “I’m just as surprised as you are!”

“Should I take my hair down, too?” She was joking, of course, but we egged her on. She pulled the clip from her hair and shook it wildly, earnestly.

“Okay, okay, cool it.” I said. She was in full model mode now.

“How do I look?”

“Gorgeous as always!” Dad said.

Our server came to the table, two drinks in hand — an aptly named Al Capone for me (rye whiskey, bitters, soda water, and a type of liqueur I couldn’t pronounce) and a Moscow mule for Dad. Al Capone owned the Ohio Club back in the early 1900s. It’s was a tried and true gangster place, and you can’t help but feel the old time swagger steeped in shady history as soon as you walk in. It’s intimate and inviting, but impossible to move when it’s truly busy, though the high ceiling makes it feel less claustrophobic than it is.

Mom ordered something to drink just as Dad’s phone rang with the notification that our table upstairs was ready. He stayed back to pay the tab and we ladies made our way upstairs. Again, the hostess from Denver, clad in bell-bottoms still had no recollection of me, or us, it seemed. She led us to the front of the small upstairs space and it was clear we’d be sharing a table with two guys who looked to be in their 40s. We didn’t care—we were here for Donna and the house band, and we had a front row seat to enjoy the entertainment. Mom and I looked around, laughing with gratitude that the crowd was different that night than the previous weekend.

Last weekend, we’d been graced with the presence of a young-ish couple at the table next to us who looked as though they hadn’t seen the light of day in months. The woman moved anxiously, her legs bouncing uncontrollably under the table the entire dinner. Her beau wore a button down shirt, ill-fitting pants, and never seemed to utter a word. An odd couple, to be sure. At one point in the night, I looked over to see the woman slurping down the last of her bright red, fruity cocktail as the guy ordered another round. I knew in that instant it wouldn’t end well. No one should drink sugary sweet cocktails with such speed or such enthusiasm. The key is to sip and smile, but the woman did neither as far as I could tell. Halfway through the second drink, which was a fruit cocktail of another variety, given the different color, she began to lose her food and drink right there at the table. Mom urged me not to look, and I obeyed. Told you it wouldn’t end well. He got the check and they left with as much haste as she had sucked down her cocktails. Something tells me they won’t be back to the Ohio Club again soon.

Thankfully, that night’s crowd was different — buzzier, expectant. Donna and the band were taking a quick break, but they’d be back soon. The breaks didn’t last that long, Mom told me. We spotted the star herself one table over, where it became clear she had a posse in attendance that evening. She played the Ohio Club three weekends a month — she owned it, too, as I’d come to find out — so surely this wasn’t standard. Before I could wonder too much, a server emerged from the kitchen door by the edge of the stage carrying a cake. It was Donna’s birthday.

“It’s Italian crème cake, like me, because I’m Italian!” she exclaimed. Her jet-black hair, styled to absolute 1970s perfection, feathered like Farrah Fawcett, bounced with every word. She was a woman in her 60s of small stature and big charisma.

I adored her instantly.

In a matter of moments and swift movements, Donna was back up on the stage, flanked by her band, which consisted of a keyboardist, bass player, drummer, and lead guitarist. Impressive considering the conservative size of the stage — they took up every inch and were grooving in a matter of seconds. Donna picked up a tambourine. To be clear — this was a woman made for the stage. The Ohio Club on a Saturday night might as well have been a sold out Vegas residency at the MGM Grand. Her presence filled the entire club, floor to ceiling. She launched into a hit, and several members of her posse took to the dance floor. One woman offered her hand to me, inviting me to join. I sipped my drink, needing a better song to make my debut. The woman and one of the other posse members danced like nobody was watching, but really, everybody was watching. I envied their confidence. In most moments, I possessed such self-assurance when it came to a dance floor. But that night, I needed an extra boost, I’ll admit.

The night went on as Donna and the house band continued to perform. Each song came with the same level of enthusiasm as the last. Donna, clad in her all-black get up, fringe swinging with her hips, and her little diamond boot bling around her left ankle, was the star of the show. There were other notable appearances from her girl gang, which expanded over the course of the evening. There was one woman akin to Malibu Barbie — she was medium height and all legs, her blonde hair longer than most women her age dared to wear. Her husband was present, not holding her on the dance floor, but rather holding his beer at the table. She didn’t seem to mind. She wore all white, sporting a long lace dress over a noticeably shorter solid white slip. The ensemble was at once elegant and sexy, modest and revealing. She wore it well. What was a woman like that doing in a bar like this? We surprisingly spotted a familiar face on the dance floor — it was Christine, the musician from the weekend before. She was the first artist I heard perform at The Ohio Club. Christine was from Pearcy, about 15 miles up the road from Hot Springs. She was more Jimmy Buffett than Vegas. Her outfit that night was quite similar to what she wore when we first saw her — a Hawaiian shirt, greyish-tan shorts that went to her mid-thigh, and Vans. During her performance, Mom leaned towards Dad and me, “I could make her a star.” We liked Christine, and it was fun seeing her let loose on the dance floor.

A bit later, Mom and Dad joined the small crowd for a dance. The band played “Your Mama Don’t Dance,” and by the end when my parents took their seats, the two men behind us were beaming. The more outspoken one leaned across the table toward me.

“You are one blessed girl! Your Mama does dance and your Daddy rocks and rolls!” We all laughed. It was true—my parents are a good time, and I cemented the moment in my memory. I already knew this of course, but having parents like mine who I could sit in a club with, as friends, was a gift. It struck me that the man was surprised at this. I don’t think he expected my mom to be so fun, or my dad to be such a good dancer. But that’s half the fun of it, surprising people when they’ve already made up their minds about you. The man could tell my dad was on the quieter side, and that he was an architect, which, by all accounts, puts him in a more cerebral category, and not the type you’d think to be tearing it up on a small, dark dance floor. I was proud to witness this surprise to these new friends at our table.

A couple songs later, I danced with Dad, and we wowed the crowd all over again. Well, in my mind that’s how it went. We stayed on for another slower tune — “Tennessee Whiskey” by Chris Stapleton — and he held me tight in his strong arms. I felt warm and secure and loved. The sensuality of the bustling club wasn’t only for swinging hips and twisting legs; it was for arms wrapped tight, chests pressed close. The song floated in time, lengthening for lovers to relish each other’s closeness. For Dad and me, it was the tender father-daughter experience that is rarer than it should be, and less frequent than we need it to be. Don’t we all long for that simple, physical kind of love? A reminder that we belong to someone who’s looking out for us?

After our song, Donna and the house band took another short break. I was feeling nice and bubbly, ready to expand. I saw Christine sitting at Donna’s table, next to a woman who we presumed to be her girlfriend. I grabbed my drink and took a few steps over to the table. Christine welcomed me, and we had one of my favorite types of conversations.

What are your dreams?

How did you get here?

Why do you love it?

What’s next?

She humored me, though she didn’t strike me as the starving artist type who savored these questions like water in a parched land. Christine didn’t seem to need the attention, because as she explained, she was in fact living the dream. She’d tried LA for a while, and had even played the Viper Room once, but it wasn’t for her. Now here she was in Arkansas, happy and in love. The woman next to her was her fiancée, I found out. They’d been together eight years, and the pandemic spoiled their wedding plans. In light of all that, they weren’t in a hurry. Just happy to be together.

Donna returned to the stage in all her glory. More friends had shown up for her birthday, and she gave a heartfelt thank you. She called out one guy in particular, her longtime friend Goose Gossage, an MLB pitcher who played 22 seasons between 1972 and 1994. His white handlebar mustache stood out instantly, and he seemed to be a man of warm spirit given his kind eyes and giant smile. At 70-something years old, he still stood tall when we brushed past him on our way out of the club. It was getting late, and the night was winding down. As soon as we got outside, we regretted not taking a photo with Goose, given his fame and history.

What a night it had been. Donna and the house band did not disappoint. It amazed me that she could be so content with this life around her. What exactly was I chasing in Los Angeles? Had Donna found the same thing there in Hot Springs?

Maybe one day I’ll look good enough to ask her.