Page 1 of Until Landon
CHAPTERONE
Landon
I have wiped the bar too many times for it to be about cleanliness. Exactly who am I trying to fool? The crowd celebrating the upcoming wedding is oblivious. No one gives ashitwhat I do unless it affects my pouring arm. As long as the drinks keep on comin’, everybody’s happy.
It buys me time to watch the girl making drunk look pretty. It’s a scene not unheard of, just rare. Like seeing a white tiger. Once in a thousand nights an intoxicated female looks sexy to me. This one does. As fuck. She has defied the stereotype.
There is no ass hugging dress or low-cut top exposing coming attractions for some lucky guy. Instead, black jeans fit her fine body like they are meant to. What is attractive is understated, making it a hundred times more interesting. One gold bracelet circles a small wrist. It doesn’t shout, it whispers. At the same time, the chocolate hair is a perfect mess and breasts move untethered beneath an oversized red sweater. As she dances one silky skinned shoulder stays exposed. Small details big impact.
The crown she wears, announcing BRIDESMAID in silver glittered letters, sits crooked on her head. This woman is the ‘giggles, singing along to the songs, one lock of hair falling in her face’ type of drinker. Sexier than the inhibitions lowered variety. It was the three Fireballs that teed her up and the tequila shot that sent her flying. Obviously a rookie. Tomorrow is going to suck.
None here will be driving home on their own power. I know most, and not one, is gonna take the chance of getting a DUI. Having their license taken away would be too big of a hit. Not worth it to a biker. They all know the cops are nearby at two. Some of them are close friends. After closing, a few guys will park their rides behind the bar in the locked garage. Dad’s good that way.
I don’t detect bridesmaid girl is with a man. None have sent the usual signals. Not that it matters. I am not interested in making a connection with any woman in this town. A one nighter here would be the stupidest thing I could do. Visits home need to be drama free. I can see it now. She might want more than I have to give, or maybe it would be me doing the wanting. Then every time I would be in Smyrna we would have to avoid each other. No. Uh uh.
The groom is her partner on the dance floor. They are singing along to a country song about taking a drunk girl home. They are laughing like old friends. I like the way her mouth moves and just for the hell of it I picture her kissing me. Slow. Deep in the bowels of my brain, I hear the grunt of an ape.
“Another pitcher, Landon. And two JW’s.”
A long pointed purple-tipped finger taps on the bar for emphasis, making sure the order was heard over the noise. Fuck. Quit with the fucking tapping, Shannon. It bothers the hell out of me. Worse than that, the annoying sound cockblocked the fantasy taking shape involving my hands cupping the dancing woman’s high, round ass.
But this is no time for my bullshit. Momma’s Country is a business. Pouring the whiskey, I enjoy the cheap thrill of my vanity. I’ve still got it. Perfectly measured without effort. Tonight it takes all three of us to manage the inmates in this biker asylum. Around the tables, along the bar, and crowding the dance floor, they have stayed in the mood of the occasion. Our job is to keep them there.
Filling the pitcher of beer, I wipe a few errant drops running down the glass. Shannon picks up the order and walks off without further comment. I like that about her. No bullshit.
“One more here,” a smoke graveled voice says.
“Here too.”
On timeworn black leather stools, perched in their regular spots, sit the more hardcore characters. Old bikers who aged in place. Most days watching life moving around them. Not active participants, but observers caught in a trap of their own making. One woman and two men. For them drinking is not a sprint, but a marathon. A daily race to cirrhosis. None drink whiskey from a higher shelf. There are serious drinkers within these walls. Lifers.
A few have imprinted their ass in the stool. Including Bill, who just ordered another vodka tonic, and Red his roommate who does everything Bill does. Including making plays for the one woman in the place they have a chance with. Getting it up is most likely a dim memory, but they pretend it is still an option. The woman they vie for is playing the object of desire well tonight. Sally Sunshine is what she goes by, and none of them hear the irony. Despite the smoker’s lips and thinning long hair, she knows they want her. A tired looking fabric rose has been tucked behind an ear. Bill told her it looked pretty. Loneliness is best shared.
Frank sets down their order, and a few words are exchanged. Sally refuses a refill. The social security check must be gone already. But Frank pours anyway. He is their favorite bartender. It’s not the one who sometimes pours heavy, it is always the one who knows how much to engage them in conversation. Or how little. I couldn’t be around this sadness every day.
Here’s the truth. I am not cut out for the job. No matter how many ways I look at it. Not like my father. There he is talking with Wes and July for the millionth time. Like they have not seen each other for years instead of the few days it has been. Dad’s belly jiggles every time he laughs, like Santa in a too small leather vest. This is the one place where he forgets his great loss. He loves the whole scene. The bar, the loud music, the familiar people.
Only one is true for me. Forget the job, soften and change the music, keep the relationships. I love half the people here. Not the way the word is used nowadays. It is thrown around indiscriminately, and too often. I blame the women. They are the ones who insert it in every fucking time they say goodbye to someone. It changed the power of the word in my opinion. That phrase seems to run through my mind about a lot of things. I am alone in my conclusions apparently.
I love my friends here for real. Think it is mutual, although rarely acknowledged between the men. Once in awhile someone sends out a ‘love you, brother’, and I answer ‘you too, bro’. That works fine. It is genuine from both parties without getting too mushy. Nothing could persuade me to think differently about the lot of them. What our family owes these men can never be repaid. Thereisno forgetting the debt.
Washing glasses, I study the room. Different generations represent. Sons and daughters of the original Club, to fifty and sixty-year-olds still proudly wearing their colors. Strange how age molds us. The people and things we most value become more appreciated as time passes. Maybe because we sense them slipping away long before it happens. It is the shitty true story of getting old. That’s a depressing thought. Every now and then I hear my mother whispering in my ear. She is here now.Quit being so grumpy, Landon.Sometimes I listen.
Hope Dad can keep his ride. The years are gaining on him. Lately I see it clearer. At sixty-nine, he is one of the oldest bikers here. In his soul, the Fat Boy and he are one unit. I would hate to see the man who tries to take it away. He will miss having two testicles. The image of a future decrepit Ronnie Podesta taking down anyone laying hands on the Harley makes me smile. It does.
I read the room and check the time. Just half an hour more, thank God. Hope Barney and Biscuit aren’t destroying something. Well, my dog would be at fault for sure. Biscuit is an innocent bystander who just recently met a misbehaving friend. Canine peer pressure is as real as the human kind.
When we get home I am going to get in bed. Barney will join me, and I’ll put in AirPods and listen to a book. Maybe have more of the pineapple upside down cake Dad made in honor of the visit. I hid it in the back and put the bowl of chili in front.
Reaching behind me for the thick rope pull, I ring Belle. My hand slides over her curve.
“Last call!”
The sound of the thirty-year-old brass bell interrupts the party. There are more than a few groans. They should be thanking me. We have arrived at the tipping point of the evening, in various conditions. For some it is too late as they slide down the hill of sobriety. For others, it is one drink shy of one too many. Right before someone says the regrettable and it is answered with a fist.
Since day one, there has been too much testosterone in this place. Too much is how we like things. I remember when it was worse. When too much of a good thing became a bad thing. Think this is the happy medium.
The women don’t get a free pass either. They may not punch someone’s lights out, but they wound in other ways. With words that can’t be forgotten. It gets their men involved. Once in awhile a chick gets physical, and it can be brutal. The scar on my arm is the remnant of the last one I broke up. According to Dad, it doesn’t happen much now. I was over that kind of world ten years ago.
