San Francisco Dreamboats

By D. A. Boucher & Diana Saenz


Starring, in order of appearance, Bambie Lane & Mr. Dude.


At the intersection of Castro & Market Streets,

a long ways from those trailer trash days,

a classy lassie from Mugwhup Mississippi

stood on the steamy corner,

Bambie Lane,

a vision in soggy satin

& glimmering in lamp light;

her pastel blue summer dress

was soaked from the sudden city shower,

& she was slowly coming untucked.



Bambi had arrived in the city by the bay

that day on her quest to become

a chanteuse singer specializing in ballads,

& she was at ground zero,

the city from which all her influences

had gotten their big break,

Voice Farm, Nico, Alison Moyet, & Liberace,

to name a few of her faves.

Bambi got goose-bumps thinking of them,

full of excitement & wonder

at being on their adopted home turf;

her future was looking bright

until the sudden down pours

had soaked her to the skin

& dampened her spirits.



In a southern accent,

that would make Jefferson Davis proud,

she sighed, “No manager in his right mind

will give me a second glance now;

deary me, what ever am I to do?”

& she began to sob & moan quietly.



Bambie Lane had a voice

like a midnight train & a mocking bird,

if a midnight train & a mocking bird could screw,

this is what it would sound like,

deep, strong, sweet, full, & sultry,

voluptuous, powerful, & driving;

a voice that reaches deep into the crotch,

yanks genitalia out with vigor,

gives them a massage,

& drives the eardrums to orgasm,

a voice that could sell out auditoriums

& millions of records;

in short,

a manager’s wet dream incarnate.



The buzz was right on a rainy night

damp with leaves of grass,

Mr. Dude, a slick operator

hooked on long-legged lassies with broken hearts

& dressed in snappy duds the passersby admired,

stood on the corner opposite Bambi;

the bunnies crossing his path

were dressed in their finest

& smelled of flowers and fir.



Mr. Dude,

creator of lies from air,

seducer of long legged, broken hearted lassies,

& enticer of fems into the service of show business,

heard Bambi’s seductive sobbing & moaning

at her predicament on her first night in the city.


Even Bambies sobs were music,

more than rock ‘n’ roll, blues, or jazz,

much more than Bach, Mozart, & their ilk;

soulful & sincere melodies drifted on the wet breeze.

Mr. Dude pricked up his ears,

looked around for the sound,

& saw the long legged,

down hearted beauty standing in the rain.



Mr. Dude stood across the way

mesmerized by Bambi’s sad vocals,

soon he had a hard smile on,

& wanton abandon in his heart,

he must have this girl for his cabaret!

Such a draw she would be

attracting a steady audience stream;

alone or with their amours in tow,

cabbies, workers, & dock men,

doctors, lawyers, & professionals,

folks from all walks of life

would revive his old burlesque theatre

&, once again,

Stage Door Johnnies & Joanies would lurk

at the performers entrance

after every performance.



Mr. Dude crossed the street to Bambie

a proposition on his mind.

He subtly slid up to Bambi,

nonchalantly as if waiting for a taxi,

& said low in her ear,

a query as smooth as chocolate pudding,

“Hey, baby, need a job?”

“I currently have an opening in my show.”

He grinned a sincere smirk,

but, his eyes betrayed his desires;

the ulterior seduction motive

of more than Bambi’s talented voice,

the seduction of her virginal virtue.



Bambi Lane slowly opened her huge, long lashed, eyes

& looked at him toe to head,

from his alligator shoes to his panama hat,

studying him closely up & down,

& recalling all the men she’d had,

the drama & trauma they’d caused,

& the bitter break-ups,

She thought to herself,

“I survived them”

& she said aloud,

“I can survive this one.”



Bambi reached into her handbag

& pulled out a pack of Dokes,

“cool folks smoke Dokes”

she said, laughing,

“Steven was so right about that.”

Bambi opened & removed a stick,

it’s all natural hemp paper

illuminated by the street light

looked tan like mocha.

She leaned coolly against a bar window,

languid like a cat,

placed the number between her lips,

& peered at Mr. Dude,

her cigarette waiting for a light.



Mr. Dude noted the herbal smoke,

& from deep inside his left pocket

he fluidly whipped out his Zippo,

&, as equally fluid,

put flame to aromatic plant & paper,

all the while gazing into Bambies pure blue eyes

rimmed by luscious auburn hair

& smooth silky skin;

just enough make-up brought-out

Bambi’s features in spades

& covered up any unsightly facial hairs.


Mr. Dude said, “is it cold out here,

or are you just excited to make my acquaintance?”

Bambie gazed back into Mr. Dude’s flaming dark eyes

& saw herself in his pupils,

who just happened to be passing by with a wave

& “hello, Professor Dudenski!”



Bambi suddenly awoke

& found herself in a sophomore engineering class at MIT,

wearing slacks, shirt, tie, blazer with insignia,

a fraternity pin on the lapel,

& drool on her chin;

she wasn’t a long legged broken hearted hussy with a voice

standing on a wet San Francisco street corner,

she was in Professor Dudenski’s honors class

in Cambridge, Massachusetts,

& the prof was calling on her,

“Bob! Bobby Lane! Do you know the answer?”