Just Pretend I'm Not Here

Shiela is far out of town now.

It's flat as a flutter from here to the horizon in all directions and only one place to go. The Last Chance Saloon's failing neon sign flickers like a bug zapper on the side of the highway. The parking lot is full of bikes, not those sporty little crotch rockets. These are Indians(tm), Harleys(tm) and Boulevards(tm), big touring bikes with saddlebags and lots of chrome.

The needle on the gas gauge of her Explorer(tm) is close to zero. The choice is to pull in here or suffer a long slow death from dehydration when the sun rises over the desert. She turns off the radio to the opening verse of "Hotel California." She presses the button on the remote twice and the car beeps. She may stay here awhile if she likes it.

Inside the door, the bouncer stops her. He is a five-foot-four half-breed with a gold incisor, black hair to his shoulders and arms like ham hocks. "Show me some ID," he says.

"You're kidding," she says. "Anyone can see I'm at least twice twenty-one."

"That ain't it," he says. "In here, we don't trust anyone under thirty and you look like you're low mileage."

She flashes her Texas driver's license and he holds it up next to her face, his eyes moving back and forth to match the photo and the woman. "Nice picture. You're very photogenic." He waves her in.

On the dance floor, there are five different couples in leather and denim, grinding out five different dance styles to the same song. Two couples are heterosexual. Two are not. One couple, well, nobody can be sure.

She strolls over to a table for two where she can see everything, the dance floor, the pool tables, the bar and the dart board.

Two tables away, Tiny and the Coyote suckle on their long necked amber bottles. "Fresh meat," says Coyote. "Huh?" queries Tiny.

"It's your turn. I welcomed the last one," says Coyote. "Get your saddle straddler over there."

Tiny grunts and hauls his reluctant girth over to the seat opposite the new babe. "Just pretend I'm not here," he greets her as the chair collapses under his three hundred pound carcass and he is sitting on the floor with only his eyes and nose above the level of the table top, like "Kilroy was here" graffiti.

"You're not making it easy for me," she says.

Coyote comes over carrying Tiny's regular chair, the one that is reinforced with duct tape and rebar. He heaves Tiny up onto it. "Do you mind if we join you, Ma'am?"

"Please do," says Shiela. "I'm looking for company."

Tiny leans forward onto the table and grins. It tips in his direction.

Coyote catches the ash tray as it slides off the edge.

"I can't sleep and I want to talk," she says. "That's it, just talk. Is that enough for you?"

"Yeah, sure," says Tiny. He sits back as the pall of disappointment creeps over his visage.

"How about dancing?" asks Coyote. "Do you like to dance?"

Yes, I like to dance," she says. "Do you dance?"

"We took dance lessons," says Tiny.

"You took lessons?" Her face exudes wonderment.

"Yes," says Coyote. "Are you surprised?"

"No, it's just that I used to teach dance and there were always more women than men. What kind of lessons did you take?"

"All kinds," says Tiny, "ballroom, Latin, country and western, but no ballet. I wish I had ballet. It's good to have a classical background."

"Can I buy you a drink?" asks Coyote.

"Sure," says Tiny.

Coyote thwaps him. "Not you, the lady."

"What do they have here?" she asks.

"Beer, wine and whiskey," says Tiny.

"Do they sell mixed drinks?"

"As long as you don't ask them to mix more than two things," says Coyote.

"And tell them how much of each," adds Tiny.

"I see," she says. "What is it that attracts people to this place?"

"For one thing," says Coyote, "It's the only place to meet new faces for a hundred miles around."

"For another," says Tiny, "look at the picture on your driver's license."

Sheila fishes the card out of her purse. "My picture looks ten years younger."

"Not just your picture," says Coyote.

She takes a compact out of the handbag and looked at her face in the small round mirror. "Oh, my."

"If you stay here, you'll level off at about twenty," says Tiny.

"How long have you two been here?"

"You don't want to know." Coyote raises his hand to the waitress, "Sex on the Beach for the lady."

"I thought you said they didn't mix more than two things together."

Coyote winks, "What makes you think I was talking about a drink?"

"There's no beach here."

"No, but there's plenty of sand on the desert."

Now it is Tiny's turn to wallop Coyote. "They have bottles of mixer for their specialties, Ma'am. Geez, man! Give her a chance to adapt to her surroundings."

John A. Ward was born on Staten Island, attended Wagner College in the early 60's, sold his first poem to Leatherneck magazine, and became a scientist. He is now in San Antonio running, writing and living with his dance partner. He has published in Doorknobs & Bodypaint, Clockwise Cat, Apollo's Lyre, Toasted Cheese, Green Tricycle, Alighted Ezine, Lit Bits, Cenotaph Pocket Edition, The San Antonio Express-News, Antithesis Common, Wild Child, Ascent Aspirations, Holy Cuspidor, Idlewheel, Cautionary Tale, Sentence, Sun Poetic Times, Byline, Quirk, ken*again, R-KV-R-Y, The Smoking Poet, Long Story Short and Rose & Thorn. Links to his work can be found at Web Site.

Email: John A. Ward

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