Page 4 of Just Beachy

I pass the concession stand and the Hurricane. In my humble opinion, this isnotthe best name for a restaurant on a sliver-shaped barrier island on the Gulf of Mexico, but it’s been around since the seventies, and although they’ve turned it into a massive New England–ish version of its original self, it’s a great place to watch the sunset.

Eighth Avenue, which I guess qualifies as Pass-a-Grille’s “Main Street” even though it’s barely two blocks long—like all the other streets that stretch from the Gulf to the Pass-a-Grille Channel—is dotted with shops, restaurants, and galleries.

I really, really need that drink, maybe even two before I face my mother. Just a small bubble of insulation between me and her opinions. So when I find an open parking spotpractically in front of Harley’s, a bastion of bikerdom and thirsty locals, I take it as a sign that the universe approves of me imbibing a little liquid courage.

It’s three thirty when I step through the front door and inhale the mingled scents of alcohol and fried food. It’s dim inside, the sunlight no match for the dirty, salt-caked windows and partially closed blinds. The walls are shadowed and papered with black-and-white photos of the people who drink here and the motorcycles they ride.

A couple of tourist types are shooting pool beneath a flat-screen TV. Four old-timers occupy a table, nursing beers, their eyes on the television.

A waitress in short shorts and an even skimpier halter top is at the register ringing up a sale.

The bartender looks up from the beer mug he’s refilling. Lean and lightly muscled, he has a mane of sun-streaked blond hair that hangs just past his shoulders. His features are even, his cheeks covered in blond stubble. If I had to guess, I’d place his age somewhere between thirty-five and forty.

He nods in greeting. “Welcome to Harley’s. My name is Alan Jay, but folks just call me A.J.” He’s about to turn away when he blinks and does a double take. “Oh my God. You’re…it’s Cassie Everheart!” His face splits into a grin. “Man, I felt so bad when you ended up in rehab. Some people just can’t handle their alcohol. In fact, I recorded your last episode when they lead you away—we’ve replayed it, like, a million times. You know, it’s kind of a cautionary tale.”

Now, there’s a piece of good news. “Gee thanks. Gladeveryone enjoyed it. Maybe I can get you a video of my root canals. Those are a real hoot, too.”

He laughs appreciatively then picks up the remote and aims it at the TV. Before I know it, there I am in high-definition, head up, tears streaming down my face, leaving the precinct for the last time.

“Sorry.” He shakes his head. “But I never would have thought you’d lose it like that over a guy.” He says this as if he actually believes I’m Cassie Everheart, not the actress who plays her.

“I’ll have a shandy, thanks.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I’m not even sure you should be in here. And you definitely shouldn’t be drinking so soon after getting out of rehab.” He moves back behind the bar as I slide onto a barstool. “Why don’t you try this instead?”

I take a first sip and realize that, despite the slice of lemon and the little umbrella hanging off the side of the glass, he’s served me straight lemonade. There is not a single drop of liquor in the glass.

“I think you left out an important ingredient,” I sigh.

“Sorry. Just trying to help you stay straight. How’s everything going?”

“Things have been better.” I drink the first sips, slowly trying to imagine there’s at least something that resembles alcohol in it. But while it quenches my thirst, it doesn’t make my life feel less pathetic or the world any less hostile.

I take another long sip and realize I need a restroom.

“Man,” he says with another shake of his head as I get up, “I can’t believe you’re really here.”

“Right. Well. My friend Kyra will be here soon, too. If I’m not out yet, could you bring her a margarita on me?”

“Sure thing. Is she a detective, too?”

The smile forming on my lips disappears when I realize he’s not joking.

I get up and go to the little girls’ room. This is what it says right on the door. Not exactly what you’d expect in a biker bar, right? Neither is the inside. I close my eyes, but when I open them, it still looks like a Laura Ashley catalog exploded in there—all pink and flowery with a skirt around the sink and potpourri on top of the toilet tank. I imagine the biker babes blinking in disbelief when they stomp in dressed in their leathers, but it’s a small calming oasis of femininity and at the moment I’ll take my calm any way I can get it.

Three

The first thing I noticewhen I come back to the bar is the pin-drop quiet. Next, I notice the look on A.J.’s face. Then I see the reason why.

Two of the biggest, ugliest men I’ve ever seen are standing in front of the bar. Neither of them appears to own a razor, and if the odor hanging in the air is any indication, they may not have a bathtub, either.

Their attention is focused on A.J. so I shrink back into the shadows.

“We can do this the easy way,” the first hulk growls. “Or we can do it the hard way. It don’t make no difference to me.”

When they raise their arms to point guns at A.J., all thoughts of a grammar intervention evaporate along with the desire to point out how clichéd their dialogue sounds.It’s so quiet, I hear A.J. swallow. Someone’s teeth are chattering. I hope they’re not mine.

“All we want is the money in the register. Just hand it over and we’ll be outta here.” Hulk Two motions A.J. toward the till with his gun.

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