Dolly stepped off Gulf Boulevard and into the smoky dive, slightly reeking of zinfandel, stale cigarette smoke and Channel #5. She slid her oversized, rhinestone studded sunglasses over her bloodshot eyes and unsteadily made her way to the bar. To her right, two clean-cut young guys in polo shirts racked up for a game of pool while their clean-cut sorority sweethearts sipped their vodka-and-cranberry drinks and giggled to each other, their teeth and hair glowing in the dim light. To her left, a small cluster of middle-aged women perched on bar stools around a small round table covered in half-empty bottles of Corona. She noticed the telltale strips of white flesh against flaming red flesh on each woman’s shoulders.

“Tourists,” she sneered to herself, as she sat down in her usual spot at the bar.

“Hey Dolly baby, how’s it going?” the bartender looked up from washing glasses to greet her.

“Not too bad, not too bad. I’m all ready for tonight. Got my sunglasses back. I’m gonna stop the show tonight,” she replied.

“I’m sure you will,” he said as he poured zinfandel into a glass and placed it in front of Dolly.

“Thanks, sweetie. Put it on my tab.”

She watched approvingly as he walked away, his young, firm ass tightly clad in Levis creating hot flashes of desire in her. She wondered how that ass would feel in the palms of her hands and how her legs would feel wrapped around his body. She took a sip of her drink and turned around towards the small stage, savoring the familiar sickly sweet flavor of the zinfandel as it slid down her throat and into her ample bosom.

She sipped her drink and watched as more and more people showed up. She saw more locals, more regulars, all of whom greeted her with a hug and a kiss on the check and “You gonna sing tonight, Dolly?”

“You betcha, gonna stop the show tonight,” came the response.

By the time she was halfway through her third drink, the bar was filled with people, smoke and the sounds of laughter and Metallica on the jukebox. A line of shiny, chrome motorcycles parked outside the front door. Inside, their black-leather clad owners slammed shots of whiskey and banged their fists together. Their old ladies rasped and laughed and exhaled magnificent plumes of smoke from their lungs. A few graying men, all veterans making the nightly rounds, sat in a row at the bar, polishing off bottles of Pabst Blue Ribbon and Miller High Life. Dolly knew they’d be gone before the singing began.

She swallowed the last remnants of her wine, and stumbled into to the women’s restroom on the other side of the bar. After she locked the door, she hiked her skirt, slid down her panties and relieved herself into the old, rusty toilet bowl.

“Ungghhhhhhh,” she moaned. Her health had been giving her trouble for a few years now, but she refused to see the doctor. They always insisted she cut back on her drinking.

Finally she finished, and stood in front of the mirror as she straightened her skirt. She then examined her reflection in the mirror, straightening her blond curly wig. She took her sunglasses off and checked her eyes to make sure they weren’t too red. She adjusted her bra and made sure her cleavage was perfectly alluring in her red low cut blouse. She gave one more tug on her wig and a twist of her wide belt. She then put her rhinestone studded sunglassses back on.

“Lookin’ good, baby, lookin’ good,” Dolly said, as she applied one more coat of cherries in the snow to her lips.

Back at her spot at the bar, she noticed a young couple sitting next to her stool. He was dark-haired, probably Italian or Greek, dressed in jeans and a plaid shirt. She was taller than him, blond, slender, wearing jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt. They were nursing Bud Light longnecks and watching the Red Sox game on the corner television.

She sidled up next to the young man.

“Hey there, sweetie, you ever seen me sing before?”

Startled, the young man looked over at her. She watched confusion spread over his face.

“No, I don’t think I have.”

Now she had the girl’s attention, too.

“Well, don’t watch my first performance at eight. I’m terrible then. Wait ‘til ten, when I’m really drunk. I’m so good I’ll make you cry.”

The boy laughed politely and went back to watching the baseball game.

Dolly wandered off to another side of the bar, where she ordered another zinfandel and waited. On the stage a woman dressed entirely in black set up a small computer with two monitors, and opened a black plastic binder to some laminated pages. Soon, a drunk girl, probably in her late twenties, flipped through the book and pointed at a page. The black-clad woman tapped a few buttons on her computer, and the monitors cued up. The words “Shania Twain – Any Man of Mine” popped up, while the drunk girl clutched the microphone in her hand and waited. The machine counted off one-two-three-four measures, and the music began.

“Any man of mine/Better be proud of me…” Suddenly the drunk girl seemed to become conscious of the audience and stopped singing with a squawk. The crowded room looked back at her, unimpressed. Nerves overtook her and she began to giggle uncontrollably. The backing track continued while the drunk girl stood with the microphone in her hand and laughed.

Dolly looked at her and snorted.

“Fucking amateurs.”

A few minutes later, the song stopped and the girl leapt off stage, where she fled to the safety of her table and her beer. No one applauded.

Meanwhile, the woman in black cued up another song as a burly man in a Harley-Davidson bandana and a black leather vest took the stage. The opening notes of “My Way” lilted through the bar, and the biker began to sing. He sang clearly and with soul. The drunken crowd stopped and all eyes were on the biker, who was clearly experiencing some sort of ecstasy. When he sang the final lines of this tough-guy anthem, he threw his head back, closed his eyes and swept his free arm outward. A born performer, he had captivated the audience. When he finished, the bar erupted in applause.

“What the hell?” Dolly thought to herself. “How am I going to top this?”

She sat and stared at her nearly empty drink, watching the the tiny ripples in her glass. The bartender spotted her and brought her a replacement, which she began to drink without looking up.

She didn’t look up through the next song, a stirring rendition of “If You Could Read My Mind” by Gordon Lightfoot. She didn’t look up when the audience clapped. She didn’t look up until her glass was empty.

“I’m ready,” she thought.

She walked up to the stage and flipped through the book.

“Hey Dolly, what are you going to sing tonite?” the black-clad woman said.

She pointed to a song, and the black-clad woman nodded.

Dolly took the stage, microphone in hand, and stood with her back to the crowd, her legs slightly parted and her head held high. The opening notes of “I will always love you” began to play, although she could barely hear them over the din of the crowd. She turned around and started to sing.

At first she was quiet, subdued. No grand gestures, no strong vocals. She thought about Dolly, the way Dolly moved, the way she sang. She thought about the first, and only, time she ever saw Dolly live, at one of her Nashville shows surrounded by screaming fans. Dolly was fat and sweaty then, just months away from the grand opening of DollyWorld. Yet there was still a glimmer of the young girl born to poor tabacco share croppers, the country girl who embodied blond, buxom, country music. Dolly was country. She was sexy. He was apple pie. She was wretched excess and glorious simplicity.

Dolly was America.

Dolly thought about all of this as she sang. Suddenly, she was no longer Dolly, no longer an impersonator in a cheap skirt, belt, and blouse. Suddenly, she was Dolly. He felt Dollys’ blood pumping through her own veins, and she felt Dollys’ spirit in her heart. She was Dolly.

Dolly struted from one end of the tiny stage to the other, singing into the microphone in that familiar pose, her ample bosom bouncing with every step. The sweat poured off her body. Her blond wig askew. She didn’t care. She kept on singing.

When she finished singing the bar erupted with whistles and cheers. She stepped off stage and an ocean of arms and hands and smiling faces enveloped her with hugs and smiles and cold beers pushed into her hand. She walked back to her spot by the bar, where the young couple was still sitting.

“Hey,” the young man said, reaching out to touch her arm. “You were so good! I could imagine Dolly was really here as I listened to you.”

“Aw, it’s nothing,” Dolly said sheepishly.

“No, really, you were amazing. I’m covered in goosebumps.”

She blushed and smiled at him. Embarrassed, she slipped away into the crowd and found another place at the bar, where she could drink in peace until it was time for her ten o’clock performance.