Bernard Grant pulled into the Westside Tavern lot and parked next to two motorcycles sharing a single space, then walked up the wheelchair ramp and slapped at a maple branch before entering. The bar was empty, save a couple cuddling in a corner, a young bartender, and two bikers. One biker shot pool, alone, cursing and smacking the table. The other biker sat at the bar. On both his arms, a sleeve of tattoos crept up to a leather vest. Paint splotches spotted his jeans, stretched by enormous thighs. Roy took a seat at the bar, one stool between them, and was about to order a glass of Merlot when he caught sight of the man’s caramel-colored drink. He ordered bourbon, neat. On TV was a news commercial about the nonindictment of the white police officer who’d shot and killed an unarmed black teenager. The biker pinched a nut from the bowl and pointed it at the TV before popping it into his mouth. “Can you believe that, man?” Roy shook his head. “They should have charged him.” “The kid ripped off a convenience store. He was a hoodlum, plain and simple.” Roy sat up, scratched the back of his head. “Yeah. I mean there’s no videotape.” The biker squinted. “Even if there was, what do you think it would have shown?” Heat prickled on Roy’s back. “That…that they—I don’t—” The biker patted Roy’s arm and said he was joking—only an asshole would say that cop wasn’t racist. He introduced himself as Roger and scooted onto the stool beside Roy. Their knees knocked. Roy smelled aftershave as Roger leaned toward him and asked him what he was drinking. Roy inspected his drink as if he’d forgotten. “Bourbon.” “Toss it back.” Roger slugged his own drink and raised his hand to the bartender. “Get me and Roy another couple of these, please.” He removed the band from his ponytail. Long, brown hair fell to his shoulders. The shot made him chatty. He lived in Oregon, rode up to Washington with his dude on his way to nowhere, gazing at heat-soaked valleys and glassy lakes, pristine and sparkling, tripping out on puddles dissolving from the road, just traveling until they ran out of money. But, he bragged, they were newly retired, set, and would never run out of money. Roger paused to offer Roy another drink. Roy declined. Yet Roger snapped his fingers. Two more shot glasses slid down the bar, one of which disappeared in Roger’s fat hand. A rainbow bracelet slid down his wrist. Roger’s knee knocked against Roy’s again, and though he moved his leg, Roger scooted closer and took his shot. “You’re not much of a drinker,” he said. “I drink.” “Then don’t waste money, man. Might not be top shelf but it comes from the top of my heart. Knock it back.” He touched Roy’s shoulder just as the other biker sneaked behind Roger and slapped the back of his head.
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Crab Orchard Review