Bugwit Meets Bikers

“Hey, you!”

I tried to ignore the half –in – the bag fifty-something chick two stools to my right.

“Hey YOU!”

I kept my eyes on the TV behind the bar except for a couple of quick glances to my left, catching the eye of Tim, whose idea it was to come to this dive in the bad side of Columbus, Ohio. Who knew Columbus even had a bad side?

“YOU! Suckin’ on that Budweiser!” This time she reached over and grabbed my forearm, so there was no mistaking who she meant.

“OH! Uh…hi!” I stammered. This couldn’t be good. I just wanted to finish my beer and get out.

“Yeah, you, honey! I’m talking to you!” She settled down now that she had my attention and straightened back up. She had dark, frizzy, grey-streaked hair, a deeply lined face that was once attractive and a blue flannel shirt with the sleeves torn off. She looked me up and down and said “You’re a nice-looking man! Very nice. Somebody raised you right. You can sure tell that."

At first, I was relieved, thinking that all she wanted was a little light flirting. Then she finished her sentence:

“…not like THIS asshole!” and she leaned back so I could see the guy on her right.

On the stool next to her was a man who looked very much like Randall “Tex” Cobb, the boxer. He's best known for his role as the cellmate who wanted to rape Chevy Chase in Fletch Lives, or the biker from hell in Raising Arizona. He was probably 250 pounds, with a huge bulldog head. His hair was wild and bushy, as was his beard. A wide, fist-flattened nose was spread across his face like butter across a roll.

He looked at me like I’d just slapped his mother.

My friend Tim and I were Controllers-corporate accountants - for Borden. You know, Elsie the Cow. And we were in town for a big meeting where we were told our plants were going to be shut down; Tim’s in Seattle and mine in Minneapolis.

After the meeting, we went out to rip a new one in our expense accounts. We went to the Japanese restaurant where they cook everything in front of you. We ordered the shrimp, the lobster, the tenderloin and three sake samplers. We bought the special birthday fruit boat desert for each of the three couples sitting at the same grill with us. It wasn’t anybody’s birthday, but it cost forty dollars and came with a very old Japanese man who sang happy birthday. After a few sakes, we just had to hear it again and again. We managed to run up a $400 bill. Revenge was delicious, if not sweet.

After dinner, I thought playing pool and swilling seven-dollar Heinekens on Elsie’s dime would be just fine, but Tim reverted to his thrifty accountant mindset and insisted we go to the local Eagles club. He was a member of the Fraternal Order and wanted the free pool and three dollar pitchers of beer that were his right.

Finally I caved, and off we went in a cab through increasingly shady-looking neighborhoods until we arrived at what had to be the absolute rectum of Columbus. Boarded-up buildings and fire-gutted businesses surrounded the only two going concerns on the block: The Fraternal Order of Eagles and the biker bar next door.

We knocked on the door of the Eagles. A panel slid away, speakeasy style, and a voice said “We’re a private club! Go away!”

Tim held up his membership card.

“Well, come back in thirty minutes. We’re voting on officers for next year.” The panel slid shut.

Tim’s next great idea was to grab a beer at the biker joint next door while we waited. When I hesitated, he said, “Hey, bikers are great, man. That whole violence image is over-blown. Bikers are some of the greatest people you’ll ever meet.”

As we walked in, I became aware of how were dressed: me in pressed black slacks, a white oxford and expensive black loafers; Tim in khakis and a golf shirt. Everyone else was in black leather jackets with club colors. We pulled up a barstool and tried to keep to ourselves. That’s when the drunk woman started in on me.

“What the heck is a good-lookin’ kid like you doing in this shit-hole, anyway?” she continued. Tex burned holes in me with his half-lidded, bloodshot eyes.

I explained about the Eagles and nudged Tim to join the conversation, but he refused to acknowledge me or take is eyes off the TV, determined to stay out of it.

“How old are you, honey?” She asked.

“Umm…thirty five.”

“I don’t usually give away my age in bars,” she said, suddenly the coquette. She paused a moment to cough up a loogie and spit it on the floor. “I’ll tell you, but I would never tell this jerk.” She jabbed a thumb in the direction of Tex.

Tex’s eyes blazed at me. He started taking things out of his pockets and putting them on the bar. I had no idea what that meant, but he was getting ready to do something. Cigarettes. Lighter. Keys. More keys. Pocket knife. Pocket watch.

That reminded me. I looked at my watch. We had 15 minutes to go.

“Hey, Tim look! The Eagle Club’s probably open now!” I stood up and threw a five on the bar. “It was real nice meeting you…”

“Christine.”

“Right, Christine…but we have to go now.” I hustled Tim towards to the door and looked back to see if Tex was following us. When I did, Christine held her finger up, as if to stop me.

“Hey, I was going to invite you to be my date at my family reunion tomorrow!” She seemed genuinely sad that I was leaving.

“Sounds great!” I said, one hand on the door.

“It’s at the Courtyard Marriott by the airport!” she yelled after me.

“Can’t wait!”

Outside, Tim started for the Eagles Club. I saw a cab coming and grabbed Tim by the shirt and dragged him to the street where we blocked the taxi’s path.

Once we were safely in the back seat, Tim straightened his shirt and looked over at me, smiling. “Damn! She didn’t say what time to be there!”

"I don't remember her inviting you," I replied.