Click. Click. Click.
Dina-Pina's kitten heels are the only sound on the street as we walk towards the Sports Bar. I still have the tumbler from her apartment in my right hand. We are linked arm in arm; the official tipsy-girl travel position is in full swing. I'm certain that I might fall over; the vodka sodas with lime crept up on me.
"So...where are you from?" I ask matter-of-fact. I can hear a sort-of accent, but can't really place it.
"Kansas." she says and bursts out into laughter.
I can't resist, and so I say the first dumb thing that comes to my mind -- which I'm sure she's heard a million times:
"You're not in Kansas anymore!"
Hardee har har. What a lame ass. I can't believe people actually pay me to write for them...
We turn the corner. There's a modest sort-of Sports Bar with a couple of bikes parked out front. It doesn't seem too sketchy. I guess Dina-Pina could read my mind because she instantly chimes in;
"It's not as dingy as it looks, besides -- it's safe."
One of the bikers waives and gives a big smile, as we approach. I feel like an extra on the set of MASK and at any moment Cher and Sam Elliott will walk out.
I start to hear the music from inside as we approach. Another burly biker dude walks out to light a cigarette and gives a bigger smile and waive to Dina-Pina. As the door opens and closes behind him; the music crescendos -- and it's actually stuff I know. I already like this place.
The second biker-dude walks over to give her a hug.
"Hey Charlie!" she says, and hugs him back. There's sincerity. This guy is a good guy despite his appearance.
Say her name! Say her name! I whisper to myself as they greet each other. But he doesn't. Just a 'hey'.
We walk inside. The crowd is sparse, but it is really clean and the guy behind the main bar waives us over. Dina-Pina leans over and gives him a big hug, and we take a seat on the stools. He pours us two shots of tequila. I shrug and suck it back, and take a look around the room. A couple of bikers are playing pool. They must belong to the other two who are out front having a cigarette. There's some trucker-types watching a game. Fairly tame.
Dina-Pina's phone starts to ring, and ring, and ring. I look at her as if to say answer it, but she just sends it to voicemail. The guy behind the bar looks concerned, and I know there is some sort-of story behind all of this -- but a moment later I forget because the BEST song in the world just came on, and so, Dina-Pina and I gravitate towards the dance floor -- hips swaying left and right. A moment later a hodge-podge of bikers and out-of-town trucker types join us, because it's fun. Ridiculous. Completely nonsensical.
But safe. Very very safe.
And we apparently, all love dancing to this song.
