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Oliver Benjamin                            
Sheba goin’ down to Abyssinia. It sure was catchy. Was it one of his?
I don’t remember that one.”
He chuckled, “He wrote it, but never recorded it.”
“Why? It really swung.”
“He wrote it about one of his first loves, an Ethiopian woman in
Los Angeles. She died giving birth to his child. I don’t think he ever
really meant to sing it. He never showed it to anybody.”
“That’s sad,” Dolores frowned.
Bern shook his head in disbelief. “You knew Sammy too? Jeez.
Did everyone around here know Sammy?”
“I was his ‘knight errand’ at the Desert Inn. After he died, I began
doing this professionally. I guess you never really know who’s going
to end up in your will!”
They clinked their glasses together and toasted to the dead
entertainer, to whatever spirit of his still remained.
With Sammie’s help, Dolores and Bern improved their act. They
opened for him on the three nights a week he performed at St.
Marty’s Resort. Gradually they came to befriend the entire staff,
found everyone so friendly that they decided to settle in for the
“Wonder what ever happened to that little fella, Roy,” Bern said
one evening, dipping his feet into the flat water curling up upon the
shoreline. Creaturely coconuts lay massed before the ebb.
“He was a good-looking man,” Dolores said, “Probably found
himself an island beauty.”
Colin walked over to tell them that dinner was on. Dolores
offered him her cocktail. “I didn’t touch it,” she said, “Really. I’m
allergic to coconut.”
“Thanks, but I can’t. I’m in AA now. If they catch me drinking
they all gather round and stab me with little paper umbrellas.”
“Well cheers to you anyway,” Bern said.
“And doobie doobie doo to you,” he said, lighting up a marijuana
Bern raised his glass to toast the sunset and they strolled inside
to the banquet room. The staff were gathered around. Something had
come in the mail. Niles read aloud:
Dearest Undergroundlings,
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