Chapter 2: Tough as Leather

Matt followed her through the door of the bar, the stink of cigarette smoke and booze immediately stinging his nose. The dingy room was lit by yellow lamps, casting their dull glow through the hazy atmosphere, almost like smog rolling in over a city as it lingered in the air. Flickering neon signs pierced the gloom in bright blues and pinks, advertising different brands of beer as they hung above the bar. Their light reflected on silver taps that lined the counter and the shelves below them were illuminated by lighting strips, stacked with colorful bottles of spirits and liqueurs.

There was a red felt pool table in the center of the room, surrounded by burly truckers clad in denim and flannel, many as wide as they were tall. They nursed frothing pints of beer, the butts of their cigarettes glowing orange as they lined up shots with their cues, some of them turning to get a look at the newcomers. The space was populated by maybe a dozen tables, most of which were occupied, their patrons looking up from card games and their conversations halting as they noticed the strangers. There were a few drunks at the bar, leaning on the counter as they chased their troubles away with harder drinks. The bartender paused as he filled a glass from one of the taps, sizing up Matt and his female companion as they made their way between the tables towards him.

His companion took a seat on one of the stools at the bar, Matt following behind sheepishly, sitting down next to her as he glanced about the room. He could feel the eyes of the patrons on his back, it was like a damned Twilight Zone episode.

His new friend lit another cigarette, exhaling a cloud of smoke as the bartender walked over to her. His white apron was a patchwork of stains old and new, his rolled-up sleeves exposing forearms that could only have been described as furry. His face was adorned with a bushy beard that was peppered with grey hairs, and his eyebrows looked like a pair of fuzzy caterpillars. If Santa Claus had ever done a stint in prison, this is what he would have looked like.

“What’ll it be?” he asked, his tone giving Matt the impression that he wasn’t too thrilled to have them in his bar.

“Neat bourbon, on the rocks,” the woman replied. The bartender turned his attention towards Matt, who looked so out of place in his blue parka that he might as well have been wearing a sequined ball gown.

“I ... don’t really drink,” he stammered, “I’ll just have a-”

“Give him the same,” his companion interjected, shooting Matt a sly grin.

Matt leaned closer to whisper to her as the bartender left to pour their drinks.

“Come on, I told you that I don’t drink.”

“Well today you’re drinking,” she shot back, punctuating the statement by blowing a smoke ring into his face. Matt wafted it away, suppressing a cough as she laughed at his reaction.

“You know those things will kill you,” he said, but she just rolled the cigarette around with her tongue and winked at him.

“Loosen up, kid.”

The barman returned and handed them their glasses, filled with ice and amber liquid. Matt took a tentative sip, finding it smooth and pleasant, the drink warming his belly. The woman wasted no time, rolling her cigarette to one side of her mouth and taking a swig, clearly an advanced user. He took a second draw, and she leaned over to give him a hard pat on the back that almost knocked the air out of his lungs.

“See, it ain’t so bad. Now I’m going to get drunk and then you’re going to take me back to your place...” She finished the sentence with a suggestive pause, watching Matt’s cheek redden with a smile on her face. “ ... to meet your dog,” she added.

He laughed nervously, taking another sip of his drink and glancing about the room. Many of the patrons had gone back to their business, but a few of the men who were hanging around the pool table were muttering under their breaths and staring in their direction. Matt had never been inside the bar before, but he passed it every morning and every night on his way to and from the diner. He had witnessed more than his fair share of drunken brawls in the parking lot, and the dive had a bad reputation in the relatively small town.

“It’s all about confidence,” his companion muttered, Matt turning his attention back to her.

“What?”

“Confidence. That’s what people respond to, not your clothes. The clothes don’t make the man, you don’t need leather and tats to be cool. You can rock that parka, you just have to own it.”

She was remarkably perceptive, like she could smell the insecurity on him. He had to admit, he would have expected most women to be turned off by that, what was her game? Why had she taken a liking to him as quickly as she had? Was it the food? They did say that the path to a person’s heart was through their stomach after all, but he doubted that biker chicks appreciated the sensitive types.

“So,” he started, mustering all of his courage and putting on a confident face. “Are you gonna tell me more about yourself or is it a secret?”

“Depends what you want to know,” she replied, swirling the melting ice cubes around in her glass of bourbon.

“Well you won’t tell me your name, so maybe I can get to know you in other ways. What kind of music do you like?”

“Guess...”

“Korean Pop,” he volunteered sarcastically, and she laughed into her gloved hand.

“Try again.”

“Mongolian throat singing?”

“I don’t think you’re taking this very seriously,” she whispered, failing to suppress her grin as she took another long draw from her glass. She was burning through it remarkably quickly, she wasn’t joking about wanting to get drunk. Come to think of it, she drank and smoked like someone twice her age, yet she was healthy and spry. To his annoyance, she kept referring to him as kid too, but by the look of her she couldn’t have been a day over twenty-five. While travelers often accrued wisdom and experienced beyond their years, it was not enough to explain her mannerisms.

“Alright, Motörhead.”

“What am I, a stereotype? You’re getting warmer though.”

“AC/DC.”

“Invalid,” she said, wagging her finger at him. “Everyone likes AC/DC.”

“You’ll have to give me some kind of clue,” he pleaded, and she considered for a moment as she nursed her drink.

“I say Kashmir, you say...”

“Led Zeppelin?”

“Bingo.”

“So like ... late sixties, early seventies rock?”

“I might be a stereotype after all,” she chuckled, slamming her empty glass down on the counter to get the attention of the bartender. The stout man walked over to her, his expression one of perpetual displeasure, scowling at her as he began to pour her a refill. Matt noticed that one of the patrons a few seats over to their left was now passed out drunk, or perhaps sleeping on the counter, the bartender seemed indifferent and made no attempt to rouse him.

“Still think this is your kind of place?” Matt asked, his voice low so that the other patrons didn’t overhear him.

“I’m liking the vibe so far, but we’ll see where the night takes us.”

She almost seemed to be waiting for something, but Matt wasn’t sure what that might be.

They drank and chatted for perhaps another hour. She had been right, Matt was getting looser and more relaxed as he worked his way through his drink. The woman was now on her fourth or maybe even fifth refill. She drank like a fish, and she showed no sign of slowing down. He felt that it should have been enough to floor someone of her weight, and yet she remained alert and conversational, the two of them talking at length about music.

She regaled him with amusing stories about the concerts that she had been to, but Matt was fairly knowledgeable when it came to classic rock, and he was certain that some of the bands whose concerts she claimed to have attended had not toured since the mid-eighties. Even if she had been able to sneak into those concerts at fifteen or sixteen years old, that would put her current age at well over forty. Was she lying? If that was the case, then they were elaborate lies. Besides, asking her age would have been incredibly rude.

As she was recounting one of her many stories, a large man wearing a faded denim jacket sat down heavily to her left, occupying the closest empty seat between her and the sleeping drunk. He was somewhat overweight but heavily muscled, he looked to Matt like a shaved gorilla in human clothing. He sported a trucker’s cap, and his chin was adorned with a bushy, black beard. He had not come to order a drink, he already held a can of beer in his hand, dwarfed by his sausage-like fingers. Matt remarked that he smelled of alcohol, inebriated judging by the way that he swayed as he leaned an elbow on the bar for balance.