Episode 83
(Northern California, June 12, 2018)
The minute Alana saw the place, she groaned. She and Finn rarely saw one another anymore, and this was how he wanted to spend his time with her? It didn’t surprise her after all these years, but she couldn’t help a morsel of annoyance.
Alana navigated the rows of parked motorcycles, gingerly steering her VW Beetle into one of the few empty spots. It wasn’t hard to guess which car was Finn’s, though with this crowd she couldn’t be completely certain. Had he taken up biking since they’d last met? Alana hardly could suppress a giggle at the thought. Never too late for a mid-life crisis, but it didn’t seem his style. She eyed the old Dodge with the large bumper-sticker which read “Fuck cops, eat pigs, blow me. Don’t mix ’em up.” Now that was his style. Alana rolled her eyes. What did that even mean?
If he wanted to be a jerk, he didn’t need a crass bumper sticker. He just needed to drive an American gas guzzler. Or a bike. These guys all knew that simple fact. As she habitually counted the thirty-seven motorcycles out front, not a single one had a bumper sticker. Of course, they didn’t have bumpers either.
Maybe it wasn’t his Dodge crapmobile. Maybe he’d hitched a ride from an even bigger turd. Alana just couldn’t see him riding bitch behind some biker. Either way, she was confident the Dodge had his butt print in it. She considered keying the car but decided it would be an improvement. She also decided she’d spent enough time thinking about his damned ride.
As a matter of course, Alana took a quick walk around the building. Standard single floor biker bar, three entrances, twelve windows, six barred. On closer inspection, one of the doors was a locked privy and another was an obvious delivery entrance. It too appeared to be locked. The music coming from inside was really loud, and Alana wished she had a protection for this – or at least some earplugs. With a sigh, she made her way to the front door with one thing on her mind: the beer had better be good. Whatever that meant.
The interior was less febrile than Alana had expected. In fact, aside from the music and attire, she could have mistaken the place for a family restaurant. Well, the evening was young. No doubt this bar had its moments, but it still seemed pathetic compared to the pubs she normally frequented. In fact, she had met with Finn over the years in many such taverns. This one ranked near the bottom in all regards. Either his standards had dropped or hers had risen. Who knew he’d favor the Denny’s of bike bars?
Finn rarely had been hard to spot in those other taverns, and he wasn’t hard to spot now — though for quite different reasons. A bright pink shirt with a plaid peppy throw? Could he be any less subtle about his intentions? At least, she had dressed the part. Not that Alana had planned it this way. The nice thing about Daisy Dukes and cowboy boots was they equally well could say country-and-western or granola chick.
When she entered, a murmur filled the room as heads turned. She smiled at the men’s leers and the women’s scowls. No matter how old Alana got, such reactions sent a chill of delight through her. She sauntered in as if completely oblivious to the stir she had created. The heads eventually returned to their previous positions, but this didn’t concern her. They would not forget her anytime soon. Few did. These bikers probably thought she was some famous singer, the precise sort they never would meet in person.
Alana laughed inwardly at the absurdity of this. If there was one thing she had no aptitude for in any culture it was singing. She harbored the hope that one day a civilization would emerge where what she did could be considered singing. Given the quality and direction of recent pop music, she was pretty sure that day was coming fast. But it certainly wasn’t here yet, and she was tempted to belch out a song just to disabuse the bar of any such notion. As much as the triumphant sneers of the women would have delighted her, Alana decided she wouldn’t be able to stomach the inane fawning of the men as they pretended she didn’t sound like a banshee.
Alana grinned. Her tongue had other talents, which served her well.
She sat next to Finn, who was facing the other way, and patiently waited as he failed to notice her. She even chatted with the bartender, who wasted no time attending to her. His idle banter, her idle banter, some more of his idle banter, now bordering on flirtation, her ordering a beer to thwart flirtation. Surely, her voice would draw Finn’s attention. Nope, nothing. Was he deliberately ignoring her?
Finally, she reached over and snatched his drink, almost downing it before she noticed the tiny umbrella. They served stuff like that here? No wonder the bartender’s eyes had warned her off sitting there. Gods, Finn really was playing it up. He rounded on her with a look that made clear he was spoiling for a fight. What a surprise.
Alana slid the drink back toward him with a grimace, picked up her own — which conveniently just had appeared — and waited for it to dawn on Finn that she was the culprit. One, two, three, four … ? Seriously? How dense could the man be? Suddenly, he broke into a toothy grin and offered his hand, then thought better of it and reached over to embrace her. Alana evaded the hug, jiggling her glass to indicate that her hand was occupied. Finn glanced back at his own drink and took a sip, apparently unfazed by the rebuff.
“You’re actually drinking that thing?” Alana asked, honestly surprised. She had been certain it was just for show.
“It’s not bad,” he replied, nursing it and obviously missing her meaning. Was he sulking? Alana doubted she could have hurt Finn’s feelings and did not care if she had. So what was he sulking about? A glance around the room made it clear. Nobody was paying him any mind, let alone taking the bait.
“So, this is going to be one of those nights, eh?” she demanded after a few moments.
“Not at all, not at all. I just wanted to have a chat with my gal.” Finn leaned over as if to kiss her on the cheek, before trying to plant one on her mouth. Alana turned at the last moment, almost laughing at the absurd attempt. Did Finn realize just how predictable he was?
She gave him a long look, then signaled the bartender for two shots of Jack. “I’m not your gal.”
For some reason, Alana liked the taste of Jack, even if it was complete crap and the benefits of a cheap buzz were lost on her. To every time and place, there was a tipple.
Jack represented the 1900s American bar. It was darn good branding. She had long since recognized that most of what anyone felt resulted from emotional manipulation of one sort or another. This wasn’t a problem to her. Quite the contrary, she embraced the notion. In fact, she had been practicing such arts long before they were given names and turned into formulaic industries. Nor had she grown rusty, or at least she hoped she had not.
Alana was perfectly happy to be manipulated, as long as she understood how and by whom. And she always understood how and by whom. She left it to the philosophers to debate the meaning of free will and independent thought. And while they debated such things, imagining themselves immune to the very disease which most virulently gnawed at their reason, their fragile lives slipped away. Alana had nought but contempt for such people. Who cared where her feelings came from? What was important was that Jack made her feel at home in these sorts of places, and feeling at home was the next best thing to having one.
Finn harbored no such sentimentality, but she slid one of the newly-arrived drinks his way, clinking her own against it. He’d drink it for her, or maybe just because it was there. It really didn’t matter. What was the saying? Ein schwein trinkt allein. Well the concoction in front of him didn’t qualify as a drink, so it would have to be Jack instead.
Finn gave her a sweet smile and obligingly sipped the whiskey. “You’re always my gal.”
“Nice car, by the way,” Alana muttered. He looked surprised.
“You like it?”
“No. What do you want to chat about?” He clearly had something in mind, and they may as well get it out of the way.
“Don’t be in such a hurry. Afterward.” Finn hailed the bartender with his middle finger. The man didn’t seem to know what to make of this but apparently decided it wasn’t meant as an insult. Alana wondered what these people though of Finn. They probably believed he was some weird foreign tourist. Strictly speaking, that wouldn’t be inaccurate.
Her patience was wearing thin. “Is this why you wanted to see me? To be your goddamn wingman?”
“Wingwoman,” Finn corrected. “Don’t you know you’ve been liberated?”
Alana rolled her eyes. “So this is it. You get in the mood, and I’m your booty call.”
Finn scratched his chin. “I guess that would be one way to use a wingwoman.”
She glared at him. “You know what I mean.”
“Oh don’t get in a huff. I do this when you’re not around too. I just thought, you know,” Finn affected a bashful pause before leaning in and whispering, “maybe it would remind you of old times.”
It was an inept attempt at placation, but Alana’s eyes softened and she chuckled. “You remember when we first were reunited?”
“How could I forget? You smashed a chair over my head.”
“Well, I saw some ornery thug tearing up my favorite pub.”
Finn smiled. “Horny? Not ’til you showed up.”
“Ornery, asshole,” Alana laughed. “I just wanted peace and quiet, and beating the crap out of you seemed the easiest way to get some.”
“You just had to ask if you wanted to get some.”
“I don’t even remember what got you started.”
“Bartender called my sister a tramp,” Finn replied.
“She is a tramp.” Finn gave her a dirty look, then laughed and punched her in the shoulder hard. Alana was used to it; she’d overlooked much worse.
Finn thought for a moment. “Actually, he didn’t even know I had a sister. Maybe I just didn’t like the guy’s face. Now that I recollect, I think I told him his sister was a tramp. But it was great fun. You and I tried to kill each other for two whole hours.”
“I had no idea it was you, not that it would have made a difference.”
Finn looked surprised. “You said that at the time, but I figured you were joking. Seriously? You didn’t recognize little old me?”
Alana gave him a guilty look. “Well, actually I figured it out about a minute in. The rest of the time I was punishing you for not recognizing me.”
“If I recall, I did most of the punishing.”
“It’s funny the tricks an unreliable memory can play.”
Finn looked at her. “How did you know it was me, if you didn’t recognize me?”
“A moment ago you were upset I didn’t recognize you, now you’re wondering how I did? What sort of idiot are you?”
“I’m your idiot.”
“That’s half true. Bet you can’t guess which half. Anyway, it had to be you. There can’t be two assholes that big.”
“You’d know.”
Alana shook her head. “What does that even mean? Like that bumper sticker. What is that?”
“I thought it was pretty self-evident,” Finn pouted before suddenly brightening. “It was fun, though.”
Alana needed a moment to realize he was referring to their old encounter.
“Yeah, it was,” she mused.
Finn grinned. “The bartender didn’t seem to think so. While he could, that is.”
“Could what?”
“Think.”
Alana’s wistful smile turned to a frown. “You asshole. Don’t you care that you hurt ordinary people?”
“All people are ordinary,” Finn observed. “Besides, there was the little matter of the wood alcohol the guy was serving.”
“Wood alcohol?”
“Yeah, he was mixing his whiskey with it. Several people had died and many more went blind. They were travelers, so nobody did anything about it. I even was friends with one of the victims.”
“You don’t have friends,” Alana pointed out.
“Well, yeah. But I could have been friends with one. Anyway, it pissed me off. Do I need a reason to be pissed off?”
Alana couldn’t argue with this; it was the first sensible thing he had said all day. She just wished he wouldn’t drag her in when he did get pissed.
“Most of the people in the pub that night were part of his little ring. I thought you were too,” Finn continued, raising his glass. “To serenity.”
“I think you mean serendipity.” Sometimes she wondered whether alcohol actually did affect Finn, some inexplicable byproduct of his particular combination of protections. This wouldn’t fit into her understanding of how the protections worked, but Alana was keenly aware how deficient that understanding was.
“That too,” he smiled. “Well, shall we begin?”
“And I suppose these guys deserve it too. Maybe they secretly run a child pornography ring while smuggling cocaine into nursing homes?” The frustration in Alana’s voice was palpable.
“You think?” Finn’s head snapped up. “Wow, that sounds pretty serious. We’d better stop them.”
Alana gave him an impatient sidelong glance. “Really?”
Finn smirked. “Geez, Alana, no. They’re just bikers.”
“Then why?” she groaned, resting her head in her hands on the counter.
“Well, no particular reason. Except that I’ve been outlawed.” Finn said this last word quite loudly, drawing some lazy stares. Alana gave him a quizzical look.
“A few years ago, I did attend to some members of a gang that was doing bad stuff. They turned out to be a chapter of another gang which was allied to a bigger gang, and so on. Long story short, I got outlawed.”
“Outlawed?” Alana asked with a wry look. “What is this, twelfth century Norway?”
“Same basic idea, but more violent. Everybody in every affiliated gang is supposed to kill me on sight.”
“Oh yeah, I forgot. They’re also supposed to kill anyone who’s with me,” he added, planting a big sloppy kiss on Alana’s mouth.
She gave him a dirty look and then dropped her head back onto the bar in exasperation. “Why. WHY does this always have to happen?”
Finn continued talking while she complained. “So, I figured, you know, why not take the fight to them?”
“Unfortunately,” he noted, looking around the room, “this lot doesn’t seem very prone to violence.”
He rolled up his sleeve and showed Alana a bright pink emblem.
“You can get a tattoo?”
“It’s not permanent,” Finn explained. “But is that all you have to say?”
“Well, it’s not like you’ve just come out of the closet. Sorry, Finn,” Alana patted him on the hand, “no news there.”
“Really? One of the two of us sang quite a different tune recently.”
“Yes, one of the two of us. Oh, I’m sorry, Finn. I must have gotten that rumor mixed up with the one about you having a tiny prick and no idea how to use it.”
Finn gave her a dry look, followed by a peck on the temple as he stood.
“I wonder if this is why I was outlawed,” he shouted, ostentatiously showing his tattoo to the room. A few bikers rolled their eyes before returning to their conversations.
The bartender, a burly slab of a man, walked over. “Pal, you really need to keep it down.”
“What a bunch of closeters,” Finn observed loudly to Alana.
The bartender looked down at Finn. He didn’t seem angry, just concerned. “You’ve had too much to drink. You really should lay off a bit.”
“Sod off.” Finn waved his cocktail glass and pointed to it.
The bartender sauntered off. “Your funeral, pal.”
“If only.” Finn enunciated this in as effeminate a voice as he could muster.
“For those too stupid to know, closeting is a term for engaging in homoerotic relations,” he announced to the room in a loud voice.
By this point, Finn had the attention of most of the room, but nobody seemed to know what he was talking about.
With an air of frustration, Finn elaborated. “It means you suck other guy’s cocks. Fags. I just called you all a bunch of fags,” he shouted. “You too,” he added, pointing at a couple of the women. “Lady fags, whatever those are called.”
A nearby biker with a gray ponytail turned to Finn. “You know, that’s really offensive…”
“Well, that’s the idea,” Finn laughed, interrupting the man.
“…labeling a group that way just because they are differently orientated.”
“Oriented,” Finn corrected smugly. “What about the fact that I’ve been OUTLAWED,” he shouted aloud, looking around the room. “You’re all supposed to kill me.”
“Geez, man. Who does that stuff anymore? This isn’t the 70’s. Heck, it’s actually cool to have been outlawed. I’ve been.”
“Me too,” called out a nearby woman. “Just means you can’t get into some of the rowdier places,” she added.
“Jesus, fucking H Christ,” Finn fumed. “What does a guy have to do to get clobbered around here.” He turned to the bartender, who had been watching the unfolding scene in bewilderment.
“I know,” Finn smiled. Without warning, he shoved a fork in the man’s eye. Even then, nothing happened. The bikers just stared in uncomprehending horror. Only when the bartender screamed did the crowd respond.
“Fina-fucking-ly,” Finn declared in satisfaction as half the room rose.
He turned to Alana. “I’d thank you to pick off any that get outside. We can talk about her afterward.”
“I certainly won’t be fucking you if there’s a her,” Alana scowled, chugging her drink before she rose.
“It’s not that sort of her,” Finn called out as she walked to the door. “She’s trying to kill us. Isn’t that quaint?”
Alana flipped him off over her shoulder.
“You know this turns you on, my dear. You’ll want to do nothing but fuck after this,” Finn laughed.
A beer bottle shattered over his head. It was the guy with the gray ponytail.
“Thanks for the freebie, buddy,” Finn muttered, licking the beer off his own face right before kneeing the man in the groin. As the bikers converged, he pointed over their shoulders at Alana.
“Oh, and she said your bikes are a bunch of shitcans.”