Page 25 of Lady Sings the Blues

“Why do you always get to drive? I like to drive.”

“And you can. When it’s just you or you got Maryanne, or eventually the kids.”

I purse my lips, uncomfortable with him bringing up our hypothetical children again. “Again, why?”

“Because I’m the man in this family.”

“I didn’t know wewerea family.”

“Didn’t I already break this down for you? You movin’ in. Ring on your finger. Baby in your belly.”

“You know what?” I shake my head. “I can’t even… that logic makes no sense. How do I argue with it?”

“You don’t. You accept it and move on. These are the rules, baby girl.”

“What if I don’t want the rules?”

The jerk has the nerve to laugh.

“You want the rules.”

I don’t know about all that, but I do know I want Mark. “What the hell am I getting myself into?” I mumble to myself.

He chooses to answer me anyway. “A world of happiness if you let it happen.”

***

We’ve been standing outside the clubhouse for a good ten minutes while I continue to stall my internal freak out. The building looks like it started out life as a commercial garage that probably went out of business because it’s located too far outside of town to drive a broken down car, even though in reality, it’s only two miles out.

The property they’ve surrounded by a twelve foot chain-link fence with those white strips weaving through the chain links so no one can see in from the road. Two men, Mark told me are prospects, guard the gate.

Prospects are the young guys who basically get shit on by the full members. Charged with doing everything the full members don’t want to do, from cleaning the toilets, to going shopping, to guarding the gates, and everything a full member can think of, in-between. At the end of the prospect period, which doesn’t have a defined date, but ends once the full members decide he’s earned his full membership, he’ll get patched in as a full member. Which is exactly what it sounds like. He’ll get the big patch on the back of his cut, or, the leather vest he wears to show membership to the club. It’s all very official for a group of outlaws.

Once they let us through, I take in how the property has been sectioned off. The clubhouse stands front and center with a large parking area filled with bikes and a few pickup trucks. To the left is a garage, like of the industrial variety, yet smaller than the initial clubhouse which was probably a former garage, which must be for personal use because I cannot see regular folks venturing inside these gates to find a mechanic. To the right, several trailers. Some singlewides, some doubles. All look to be well taken care of. The prettiest being a blue doublewide with a white wraparound porch. Flower boxes in full bloom hang off the railings. A paved walkway leads to the clubhouse and the whole thing is heavily landscaped with shrubs and bushes. Mark says that home belongs to the club president.

I’d live there. It reminds me of a grandma house. The kind of place you’d go to sip tea on that front porch. I’d rather go there then inside to the clubhouse. Not because I’m scared of the men. I’m just not fond of looking stupid.

“Suck it up, darlin’. Time to go.”

“I know. I just…feel stupid for how I acted last night.”

“Which is what you’re here to rectify.”

On a heavy breath I nod, and he opens the door. The space looks exactly as one would suspect an MC clubhouse to look inside. Peeling, brown laminated siding covers every inch of wall, darkened by years of smoke. Drop ceiling stained in several places by water damage, or, at least I’m telling myself it’s water damage. A neon Budweiser sign hangs next to the pool cues above the pool table directly across the room from the front door. There’s an old poker table to the left with ripped and missing sections of green felt. It has four barrel chairs with red vinyl cushions, tucked in around it. To the right of the door is the bar. And on the shelf behind the bar someone has stacked numerous bottles but only with the big four representing: Bourbon (we are in Kentucky), tequila, vodka and gin.

The very left wall has a newer looking flat screen, a long, overstuffed black vinyl sofa and three matching club chairs all in various stages of wear with rips and tears, even some stuffing pulled up. Then finally to the very back of the manly space there’s the mouth to a hallway. I’m not going to lie, the whole place smells of stale smoke, overly fermented alcohol and years of sex.

“Bossman.” He’s greeted. I’m ignored. Not that I blame them. Every man I offended last night is in this room, plus some, who I’m sure have heard the story by the unholy glares shooting my way.

“Hey guys,” I address the room. Time to man up. To lump my pride. They turn to listen but not one says hi back.Okay, I can do this.“I acted like a judgmental brat last night.” That gets grumbles of agreement. “I was shocked and out of sorts, and used that as my excuse to embarrass someone I care deeply about by being rude to all of you. No more excuses. I truly am sorry. And I hope my behavior doesn’t reflect poorly on Bossman. So yeah…that’s all I’ve got.”

Mark walks up behind me, giving my arms a squeeze and a quick kiss on my cheek. “You did great, baby girl.”

“I don’t know. No one really looks to have forgiven me.”

“Give it time.”

“Yo Bossman,” a man standing behind a bar area calls over to him. “Need anything?”

---