A kid begged his mom seated across from us for more money. She reached into her bra and whipped out her phone, a camera and a wallet...which made me wonder if she buys bras that are a couple sizes too big for her conceal and carry contraband.
A middle age "quirky" couple seated under a canopy at the table across from us were love struck. He positioned his chair so it faced his sweetie instead of the band. He took her head in his hands, and nose to nose, he stared into her eyes for about five minutes. I'd have gone cross-eyed. She went to sleep. When her head nodded, he whispered sweet nothings, probably in shades of grey, and within minutes she perked up, and they were walking off the parking lot hand in hand toward their car.
Then there were the dog lovers. A woman who seemed normal and resembled Mimi, the secretary on Drew Carey's old sit com, cuddled her peek-a-poo in a blanket. Every time Elvis or the bands sang a song about dogs: You Ain't Nothing But a Hound Dog, etc. she would prance around the bandstands and walk her dog. When a wind gust kicked up on this sunny, glorious 80 degree day, she grabbed her pooch, wrapped him in a heart decorated fleece blanket and pulled off the checkered red and white table cloth and further encased the little yapper until it was panting. Then she unwrapped the poor thing, sat down at the table, whispered in its ear, and clutched it to her ample bosom, its butt planted on the table top.
An older man and woman sat down in folding chairs at our table to watch the Elvis impersonator. She had gray hair and appeared normal. He had gray hair and wore a sleeveless shirt. He sat down and shortened the leash on his service dog, a white lab who laid at his feet. We noticed the guy's shoulder and arm tattoos: a non professionally inked Howdy Doody, a character from a children's show, circa 1953; and a Marine Corp insignia, among others.
She got up and moved her chair into the sun.
Out of the sun.
A few feet this way.
A few feet that.
A table over, and then back to us.
He moved with her each time. Then he got in her face and mouthed off quietly, and she pointed her finger in his face and told him to calm down. They played musical chairs for about ten minutes, and when he got up to walk the mutt, she moved clear across the parking lot. He came back and couldn't find her. He was like a lost kid shrugging his shoulders, his head spinning in all directions. People in the crowd pointed him in her direction. She motioned him with her index finger, patted a chair and invited him to come join her.
Meanwhile, without discussion, Bill had been observing their behavior. He whispered, "Either his mom has driven him crazy, or maybe he's a Viet Nam vet, and that's why he needs that service dog."
"Maybe," I replied.
Elvis announced his next selection, a slow song, Love Me Tender. Couples got up to dance. As we observed the dancers, Bill nudged me. "Look. He's sicker than I thought. Look at how close he's dancing with his mom and caressing her backside. Oh sheesh, his hands are traveling..."
I asked, "Where's his mom?"
Bill puzzled, "Isn't that his mom he's dancing with?"
"What makes you say that?"
"Well she was pointing at him and telling him to behave."
I laughed out loud, which drew unwanted attention to myself.
"That's not his mom; that's his wife."
There were so many clowns at that event, and not one of them wore a painted face or red nose.