Maddie knew right away what took me weeks to find out.  The irony is that I, of all the people, should have known better.  After all, I was not born and raised in upper middle class America.   But, back then, I was fresh and not too long out of my mother's house when came an opportunity for me to seek my fortune, if you will, in St. Louis, Missouri.

I had arranged to peruse that great city's various offerings during a winter holiday visit with my Aunt Thelma and Uncle Lewis or Loo-iizzz as Thelma called him.  Thelma was my mother's natural cousin but she demanded I address both she and Loo-iizzz as Aunt and Uncle declaring anyone as young as I should know better than to use the surname of elders.  Referring to her as Cousin Thelma was out of the question since Cousin Anybody was tacky.  Now, I feel obligated to mention that Thelma was in the habit of wearing atrociously pale, long blonde wigs.   She was squat and stocky and all angles and had this huge butt that rose up like a shelf to catch these straw colored ringlets of borrowed hair only to hold them hostage in a very unnatural crevice.   Yet and still, she had nerve enough to call anything tacky. 

But, I was excited with the prospect of St. Louis and thrilled at the thought of the first train ride which would get me there.   Except, somewhere between boarding and pulling out from the train station at Kalamazoo, I picked up a horrible flu bug that zapped the energy out of me, quickly replacing my girlish excitement with fevered chills and hot flashes and general, absolute misery.  Which is sad because one's first train ride should be a special joy because there is something intimate about being in the toasty belly of a big train rumbling across the terrain with the shadowy shapes of trees and barns and houses and streaking quietly by in a soft blend of night colors.  And, I love how the wheels of the train hug the metal rails and spark the air, sending a shimmy right up through the floor boards into the soles of your feet.   The passengers get a little electrified and start feeling giddy and begin to mix and mingle and laugh and low-hum.   That's when everybody is talking to somebody and all the words become a blur.   Then, the train whistle blows and the cash bar opens and everybody is buying.  You couldn't be more relaxed and loose and friendly.  Of course, the cash bar helps.  

I was quite fashionable in my genuine, fake, calf-length, white fur coat and genuine, fake, tan kidskin gloves but I was not low humming with anybody.   Nor was I was impressed, except in retrospect, with the effects of a vibrating train when all I could think of was my stuffy nose, runny eyes, aching joints and sweating chest.   Then, all of a sudden like, this gorgeous man slithers out of the mixers and minglers and plants himself across from me.  

He was a big man.  Swarthy and dark with a broad nose and nicely squared jaw.  His lips were a little too thin but they fit his face and I liked his face.  It was manly with nicely crinkled lines around the eyes and mouth.  It has been my experience that crinkled lines about the eyes and mouth are a sign of a good heart and giving nature.   Of course, I had not had much experience at that time and, I admit I may have been more taken with the cashmere topcoat and diamond inlay that sparkled wickedly from the tasteful gold ring on his pinkie.   He wore a ten gallon hat like Hoss on the Ponderosa.   Honestly.   And, snakeskin boots with a spitshine polish and spurs that clanged.  Ergo, the name Cowboy, a moniker which, by the way, I have since given him since for the life of me, I cannot recall the man's real name. 

"Excuse me, ma'am.  Mind if I sit here?"

"No," I said to him dabbing daintily with two genuine, fake kidskin gloved fingers at the sweat gathering on my forehead.  I didn't mind at all. 

"You from St. Louis?" he drawled, his voice warm and heavy and inviting, each word deliberate and sexy. 

I told him I was on my way to visit relatives in St. Louis.. 

"I'm from Waukegan, ma'am.  Waukegan, Illinois.  I do a little trade business in St. Louis."

Trade?  Is that blue collar I wanted to ask feeling myself slump back into my fever.

"You ever been to Waukegan, ma'am?"

No, I told him.   I had never been to Waukegan and I closed my eyes hoping to end the conversation.

"Waukegan is right outside Chicago." 

Now, I don't know if it was the heat of his large body so close to mine or the taxing energy required to be sociable under blue collar, outside Chicago, probably fake cashmere circumstances, but sweat started beading up faster than I could dab it and the flush in my body was a furnace. 

"Small town with one or two thousand people in it,"  he went on.

I was sinking fast.  Perhaps, I was about to suggest, he should find himself another seat ...for the sake of his own health, of course, when he said...

"None of 'em pretty as you, ma'am."

What was that?

"I been looking at you since I got on the train and I swear you 'bout the prettiest, classiest thing I ever seen in my whole life." 

Pretty?  Classy?   Me?   In his whole life?   Well, if Cowboy didn't mind catching pneumonia, who was I...? 

"You look sweet as buttermilk," he said, "Your mama bring you up on buttermilk?"

Buttermilk...? 

"You ought to come on home with me after I finish my business in St. Louis." 

Well, thank you I started to say but... 

"I sure would like to have me a buttermilk baby.  Think you could be my sweet buttermilk baby?"

Oh, well, I began, I don't ...

"How about something to drink?"

Of course, he didn't wait to hear what I wanted to drink.   Instead, he picked his huge self up, sauntered over to the bar and returned with two icy, cold bottles of Colt 45.  Maddie said that should have been my second clue, the first having been the ease with which sweet buttermilk baby rolled off his tongue.  But, I was the prettiest, classiest thing he had ever seen in his whole life!   And, not only was I reassured the cashmere on his big, beautiful body was genuine but, it was surely tailor made which could only mean the blue collar trade business was booming.  So, I gave him my number.   

I spared Maddie the details of my visit with Aunt Thelma and Uncle Looiizzz which is another story altogether.  But, I did tell Maddie that home never looked so good to me and that Cowboy phoned right away.  All he could think about was his sweet buttermilk baby, he said.  He sent flowers by the dozens.  Carnations and daisies and daffodils.  He pined to see his sweet buttermilk baby.  Could he send me a ticket, he wanted to know.  Plane, train or bus.  Would I come to him?  Would I come to him in Waukegan?   

"Come on, Paris," Maddie said to me, "Weren't you the tiniest bit suspicious by then?  I mean, the man is pumping you with flattery every day, sending you flowers, calling you this weird name..."

Maddie tilted her head and put on her detective face.

"How were the flowers addressed, Paris?"

To my Sweet Buttermilk Baby, of course.

"And you didn't even suspect?!!"

I might have suspected something I told Maddie if I had been myself but I was his sweet buttermilk baby.  Although I admit to becoming concerned and somewhat hesitant when I arrived at the airport and found the ticket waiting for me was not a round trip.

"Darlin," Cowboy drawled when I called him, "someone just made a mistake.  Hey, don't you worry your pretty little head.  I'll buy another ticket when you get here."

But, wouldn't it be just as simple, I suggested to him, if he re-booked the flight with a round trip to which he replied, "Baby... my sweet buttermilk baby... I am hurt.  Don't you trust me?"

Trust was not so much the issue as was the need for a round trip ticket, I attempted to convey to him, when he interrupted saying, "Not a problem, my sweetness.  I'll call right now and tell them to change the ticket.  Go on back to the counter and, in five minutes, my sweet buttermilk will have her round trip ticket.  Better, baby?"

It would have been.   Better, that is, except the ticket, as it turned out, had been purchased at discount.  Apparently, weeks prior?  And, because of the discount, the ticket could not be exchanged, refunded, upgraded or cashed.

"I'm very sorry, Mrs. Patterson."

I explained to the ticket taker my name was Pembleton, Mz. Paris Pembleton with a special emphasis on the Mz as it was all the rage at the time.

"Oh?" she said, an eyebrow lifted quizzically.  "It says Patterson on my ticket list."

Not that I cared one whit about her ticket list but I mentioned to her that other people frequently misspelled my name to which she replied, "I see," and lifted that eyebrow again.

"I'm sorry, Mz. Pembleton," the ticket taker said crisply.  "But, if you want to use this ticket it must be today.  The last flight is..."

Now boarding at Gate 15, the voice on the speaker boomed and, as I buckled into my seat, I could not help but wonder at the ticket taker's raised eyebrows and what exactly did she see? 


"Buttermilk!"

A short flight and there I was running into the arms of a stranger.  He grabbed me and swung me into the air, crushing me to his big, hard chest and squeezing me tightly before giving me a sloppy wet kiss which was pretty good as far as kisses go but it was strangely bitter. 

"Come on, Buttermilk," he grinned, "I want you to meet the boys."

The boys?  He had not mentioned he was a family man. 

"Y'all ever see a prettier woman than this?" he said, spinning me around.  "Look at that skin.  Smooth as buttermilk.  Go on, girl.  Show 'em my classy buttermilk baby."

The boys turned out to be men.  Gawking creatures in hideous costumes.   Patent leather red, purple and, one was dressed from head to toe in kelly green velvet.  I swear to God!   Of course, the heretofore fuzzy picture of Cowboy's trade business now took on a sharper tone and the clarity was becoming disarming to say the least. 

Kelly Green Velvet drove the long white cadillac with Cowboy and me up front and the leather twins in back where "the boys" immediately started passing the silver spoon which, of course, explained the bitter kiss.  I clung, as any drowning woman might, to one last fantasy.  Perhaps, Cowboy and The Boys were in the music trade?  Musicians were notorious for silver spoons, after all, and, if that was the case, even the wild outfits could be forgiven.

"Here you go, Sweet Buttermilk.  A little pick me up after a long flight."

I was polite but firmly said no.  Drugs were not my thing. 

"Baby, this is Kid Kane.  Kickapoo joy dust for the rich and famous.  Come on, baby, take a hit."

No, I told him again, I really didn't think so.

"Come on, Buttermilk, do it for Daddy,"  he purred. 

Daddy?  Did he say Daddy?

He leaned in close to me. 

"You don't want Daddy to look bad in front of his boys,"  he whispered, giving my shoulders a tight squeeze.  "Do you, baby?"

Not being one to make a scene, I obligingly took the proffered spoon and brought it to my nose and promptly sneezed.

"Damn, baby!" he exclaimed.

No more kickapoo for me. 

We drove to the Satin Pillow Club on Broadway and Morehead Streets.  At least a dozen women strolled the walk in front of the club's garish lights, half of them wearing fake furs identical to mine which, by the way, I have since ripped and shredded and torn to itty bitty tiny pieces and scattered to the four winds.   Meekly, I followed Cowboy and the boys into the club.  Within seconds, my eyes adjusted to the dim red lights and, through the deep blue haze of smoke, I spied the sunken cracked vinyl seats, the scarred pool tables, the platinum blonde wigs,  the open collared, gold-roped, gold-toothed, hairy chested men confirming what the incessantly blinking, exterior neon lights intimated. 

"Ouch!" I blurted out. 

"What's wrong, baby?" Cowboy asked, concerned.

I told him that I accidentally bit my tongue but, I was really checking to make sure I wasn't asleep because, if this was nightmare, I wanted to wake up.

"Careful, Buttermilk," Cowboy whispered, taking my arm possessively and pulling me closer to him.  "We don't want no bruises on our pretty little mouth now, do we?"

At this point, I had to ask myself which gesture or phrase or smell or taste had I so completely dismissed from my life that I did not recognize a bonafide pimp?  Of course, that's not what I told Maddie.  I told Maddie that I finally realized something was amiss and I promptly excused myself to the ladies room where I dialed a taxi, slipped out the side door and hightailed it to the airport and back to the safety of East Grand Rapids.  Only, what really happened ...

"... We don't want no bruises on our pretty little mouth, do we?"

That did it.   I slid my hand into my bag and got hold of my little equalizer.  Never leave home without it, Upper Middle Class America notwithstanding.  Then, I moved in on him and whispered sweetly, "No, we do not want any bruises on my pretty little mouth but we do want to get the hell out of this goddam pimp hole."   I looked into his startled eyes and pushed my little pistol deep into his groin.

Cowboy tightened his jaw and leered menacingly at me.  "Bit.." he began.

"Now, now," I said through clenched teeth.   Fluttering my eyelashes, I jabbed the gun into his groin so there would be no mistaking what he could and could not say in that soft, sexy, sultry voice of his.  "Mustn't say the B word," I said.   "Not unless you want me to blow this little wing wacker like it has never been blown because that would make us both Buttermilk Babies and we wouldn't want that now.   Would we ...Cowboy?"

He laughed and looked around the club nervously, knowing he couldn't afford to be made a fool on his own turf but, I couldn't afford for him to think I was bluffing so I cocked the hammer on my little pistol and nudged it deeper into his crotch.   A steady stream of sweat flowed down his handsome dark cheeks.  It reminded me of how sick I had been on the train.

"Sayyy... fellas," he finally drawled, never taking his eyes off me.  "I think my Sweet Buttermilk needs a little quiet time with her daddy.  Heh heh.  Yeah.  Me and Buttermilk, we'll just slip off awhile and get acquainted.  Yeah.  Heh heh.   We'll catch up with y'all later." 

Of course, there was no later for me.  I kept my little snub nose aimed at his daddy parts all the way to the airport and wouldn't allow him to say a velvety word until we arrived, whereupon, I marched him to the ticket counter and confirmed his cash purchase of a one way ticket for Mz. Paris Pembleton.

I told Maddie I was fortunate to have had my credit cards with me to aid in my escape else I might have found myself at the big fellow's mercy. 

Maddie sucked her teeth and shook her head.  "Sweet Buttermilk Baby.  Paris, I can't believe you fell for that!  Girl, I can see now that I will have to teach you some street sense."

Street sense, I asked, innocently?

"Yeah," she said, "Stuff you pick up on the street. You know. Mother wit, intuition, common sense.   The kind of sense you can't get at Meijers or have delivered to you for brunch on Sundays.  Shoot, girl," she winked at me, "I can't have a friend of mine going around being dumb to the facts!"   

She grinned and quickly added, "No offense, hon." 

Winking back, I grinned too and said, "None taken, Maddie.  None taken."