A Peak at "Motorcycle Girl Descends Into Hell":

V.
Pale Rider

I pull up to the Black Cat Bar and park my little Honda beside a row of silvergleaming Harleys. Never ridden a Harley. Like to give it a shot sometime. Take off my helmet, place it on the handlebar like the other guys do. Check to make sure my money’s not in my backpack—which is getting lighter and lighter—but in the right front pocket of my jeans.

A warm and pleasant desert evening with the air smelling of rain somewhere. Desert oxygen invades my lungs finding a warm spacious spongey welcome in there. I exhale. And feel gratitude to the desert.

Ok. Here goes.

(This should be interesting).

Walk into the dark air-conditioned interior. Large black and white poster of Clint Eastwood looking very cowboy on the wall to my right. The jukebox is playing The Rolling Stones Sticky Fingers album talking about brown sugar and how come it tastes so good. Gee I wonder why? Two matte green and brown pool tables off to the left with guys around them balls clacking. A lot of motorcycle guys in here looks like a gang: they’re all wearing denim jackets with the sleeves cut off T shirts and dirty jeans with heavy mud-barnacled black boots. The place smells like BO and liquor and cigarette smoke which stains the air with an archaic sepia color. On the backs of their jackets they have this logo: 

hmm the Coyotes. I’ve heard of them. They don’t have that great of a reputation for being sweethearts do they?

Nervous as hell I walk over to the bar and sit down on a stool taking my leather jacket and backpack off setting them on the stool to my right where the bar ends with a right-angled L shape. I order an IPA with a shot of whiskey and a glass of water. When the bartender sets the frosty glass of water down in front of me I drink about half of it all in one flow of rushing silvery water that my cells are very happy to have in their possession. Damn didn’t realize I was this thirsty!

The Stones are now going on about wild horses dragging them all away. Why would they do that? Don’t they know how to ride them? They must not be very good cowboys. Clint from his perch just above the jukebox would definitely not approve.

Wow you’re really pretty the guy next to me says without hesitation. You ride?

He’s one of the Coyotes: shaggy black hair beard that’s out of control large black ink tattoo on his right arm of a .44 magnum.

I do I say sipping my beer.

What do you ride?

A Honda MVX 500.

The guy almost does a spit take made out of total condescension and scorn.

That’s not a bike he says. That’s a toy for kids.

feeling slightly stung I say: well then I guess I’m still a kid. It’s a pretty fucking fast toy though I’ll tell you that much.

slam down my whiskey in two heroic gulps. Follow it with a swig of beer.

What’s the top speed like 90 mph?

maybe. How fast does a Harley go?

About 100. Maybe little more.

I look around the bar. A few of the guys are standing around with their girlfriends or wives floating in etheric yellow cigarette smoke and watching the boys mostly Hispanic around the pool table.

are women allowed to join the Coyotes?

Not a motherfucking chance the guy says. Why you wanna join?

Not a motherfucking chance I say smiling and sipping my India ale. I don’t run with packs. I’m a lone wolf.

Smart aleck too huh?

Sometimes. Depends on the occasion.

Like chatting with a Coyote?

Exactly like chatting with a Coyote.

Smiling at him.

You must have a name right? I ask.

Crazy Joe he says looking a little sheepish. (My how fast these coyotes turn into sheep!)

Why do they call you that?

Cuz I’m crazy I guess.

What do you do that’s crazy?

You name it.

Like what? Getting into fights?

Sometimes yeah. Every Coyote gets into fights or you ain’t a Coyote. The math on that one’s pretty simple baby.

What does a guy have to do if he wants to join the Coyotes? Cap a guy?

He laughs.

Nah we ain’t the Crips and the Bloods. Those guys are real low lifes.

Drinks from his beer.

So then what do you have to do?

You stand naked while the guys pour a bowl of shit and piss all over you.

I burst out laughing. Come on I say you’re making that up.

Nope. And your denim jacket has to be soaked in motor oil for a few days.

Yuck.

And we don’t usually take showers. Or wear helmets.

I saw helmets outside on a couple of the bikes.

Those ain’t our guys. Coyotes don’t wear helmets cuz we’re not afraid of anything.

Taps the bar with his right index finger.

How many of you are here tonight?

He pauses a moment to look around.

Tonight about ten. It’s a week night so it’s kinda slow. Usually twenty or thirty of us get together.

What kind of trouble do you get into?

He shrugs. Digging into his jacket for cigarettes. All kinds he says. You know.

Bar fights?

Sometimes. Some of these bartenders get smart with us. Then they regret it when we fuck up their joint.

You guys get pissed off that easy?

If we drink enough.

I order another IPA and whiskey.

Then I notice a brown grocery store bag beside him to his left. It’s folded over and rolled up a bit.

What do you have in there?

Oh he says that. I make my own green chile burritos and sell em. You know for pocket change. Beer money and such.

How much are they?

Buck twenty five each.

Suddenly I realize that I haven’t eaten all day. I dig into my pocket but I don’t have exact change so I hand him two dollars.

I’ll take one I say. Got any change?

That I don’t he says and I tell him it’s ok just give me the fucking burrito.

He smiles and then reaches into the bag to fish out a burrito that’s wrapped in aluminum foil then pushes it across the counter to me. I peel off the foil and start devouring it at once.

These are pretty damn good I say through a mouthful of shredded beef and green chile. Even cold.

Well thank you Honda Girl.

Now that I have actual food in my stomach I order another whiskey and slam it down in two gulps.

So you just came in here to eat and drink? he asks while lighting up a cigarette.

Pretty much.

You gotta name?

I do. It’s called Sara.

He nods flicking ashes into a tray. Sits there in a cloud of bluegold smoke.

You lookin for anything else?

Pause.

Of course I know exactly what he’s talking about. And the fact is…I just might be. I just might.

You got any pot? I ask.

It just so happens that I do he says and looks at me. How much you want?

A quarter?

Don’t have that much on me but I can score you a dime.

Ten bucks?

Yup.

I start digging into my pocket for the cash but he stops me and says Not here. We gotta go into the restroom to deal.

Oh we do, huh?

I look at him pointedly. Smiling evilly.  Not bad looking at all this guy. A little grimy maybe but not intolerable.

I order another whiskey slam it down and say Alright let’s go!