A night on the town, with a bit of lederhosen

WE ARE SUBURBAN people out to explore an urban playpen. The Frolic Room, on Hollywood Boulevard, with the kind of crowd you’d see at a Hells Angels wedding. People shaped like jukeboxes. Daylong drunks fermenting in the corner.

“Where are you taking me?” my wife asks.

“I think you’ll like this place,” I say.

Not just another dormant American marriage, this one. We are out on the town, off to see “The Producers” at the elegant Pantages Theatre. Next door to the Frolic Room, a slice-of-life joint in a city full of chin tucks.

“Put on your poker face,” I tell her as we enter the Frolic Room for a pre-theater cocktail.

“I don’t have a poker face,” she says.

“Then pretend we’re making love,” I say.

“How’s this?” she asks, staring at me blankly.

“Bingo,” I say.

Twenty-one years of marriage and we’re still talking, which is an accomplishment all by itself. At least in this town. Especially with our kids, who behave like pirates on shore leave. It pokes holes in a relationship, having pirates for kids.

“I can’t believe we’re in here,” my wife says as she clutches her purse and glides onto a bar stool.

“Believe it, baby,” I say and order her up a beer.

It’s a too-rare night on the town with my suburban Cinderella, who keeps glancing at her watch and checking her cell phone. She’s fidgety and distracted, which I hear is typical for a Cinderella. It’s a little like dating your bookie.

“What time is it now?” she asks.

“6:30,” I say. “Drink your beer.”

“What time is it now?” she asks again.

From what she tells me, it was a nasty escape from the house. The kids were brawling. The baby wouldn’t eat. A woman screamed. A screen door slammed.

Quickly, time got away from her. She was late picking me up downtown. Then we spent 20 minutes creeping through that miserable four-level interchange. Second level. Third level. Who can tell? Somewhere along the line, I’m pretty sure they added another level to the four-level interchange. Possibly while we were stuck waiting.

“Sometimes you wonder if it’s worth it,” she says wearily.

“What?”

“Going out like this,” she says. “It’s so much trouble.”

“Enough about you,” I say. “Let’s talk about me.”

There’s a long pause. Then another one. The guy next to me orders another whiskey, neat.

“OK, enough about me,” I say. “Let’s talk about you.”

So of course she talks about the children. She thinks the baby may be allergic to the adhesive on Band-Aids. The little girl needs to see the dentist. Someone else needs a mole checked. Two cars need oil changes. In most of our conversations, almost every sentence has “need” in it. Oh, and don’t forget that the back porch needs painting, she says. Brownish-red, to match the squirrels in the trees.

“I’m thinking we should refinance,” I tell her.

“Again?”

“Every 18 months,” I say. “Like buying tires.”

In the theater, I walk her down the aisle, past tall women with short, self-important men in casual shirts that probably go for 200 bucks easy. Industry types. Hollywood robber barons.

“Row P, about halfway down,” the usher says.

“This place is so beautiful,” she says, as if entering a castle for a ball.

“Be sure to turn off the cell phone,” I remind her.

It’s a fine show. Showgirls, big as NBA forwards, spring from filing cabinets. Old ladies, some of them men, tap-dance with walkers. Swastikas spin like pinwheels. It’s what the United Nations would be like if Mel Brooks were secretary-general.

“But I don’t want to go down the toilet,” one of the characters wails, “I want to go into show business!”

Midway through the second act, my wife squeezes my hand, mistaking it for Kleenex probably, or a baby’s rump -- I’m not sure.

I squeeze back, frightening her momentarily. A woman who doesn’t frighten easily.

“It’s getting late,” she whispers as a Nazi in lederhosen struts on stage.

You don’t see that much around our little suburb. Pirates, sure. But not much lederhosen.

For that, you have to venture to Hollywood Boulevard. To the big old place next to the Frolic Room.

Try to get there early.

Chris Erskine can be reached at chris.erskine@latimes.com.