Another hot July day, perfect for a long ride on my motorcycle, a 1983 Honda Magna V-65, an oldie but a goodie. I can see the heat shimmering off the road in front of me, creating mirages that look like water on the road, fooling me with its illusion, and disappearing just as quickly as I approach, evaporating in the baking heat. I ride past tall, wilted corn, standing naked in blazing sunny fields, and I can feel the blast-furnace-like air change in subtle texture as I ride in and out of the shadows of trees lining this marvelous country road. I've been out riding for a good two hours when the need for a cold beer came over me, as it sometime does. Up ahead a few miles, as luck would have it, was a typical road-side dive, frequented by ne'er do wells and motorcycle hippies. Just the kind of place I was looking for! It's simply called J's tap. Or sometimes Joe's Place. I gun the bike and it jumps right up to a hundred miles an hour, feel the hot air and the corn fields envelop around me. Reaching the turnoff to the little dive, I slow down and pull up. Noticing the heat now rolling from my bike, I pull it under a nearby grove of shade trees so it could cool off too, while I go inside for a really cold one. I really shouldn't have gunned it like that in the heat, but it would be all right, I thought. The Japanese build a fine machine, though my Harley riding friends tease me unmercifully about it, the bastards. Like we can all afford to ride twenty thousand dollar machines. Rice-grinder they call it. Ha ha ha! Least mine is paid for anyway.

It was very bright that day. Stowing away my sunglasses in my bike so I don't leave them in the bar, I stand and admire the bright sunny day. But then, walking inside the darkness of the bar temporarily blinded me. I thought to just stand and wait a few seconds, but then there was an old Bob Dylan song playing on the jute box, Tangled Up In Blue. Sounded pretty good I was thinking, forgetting the darkness, when I tripped and stumbled, catching my foot on an old runner that lay bunched up on the floor just inside the door. Falling forward I caught myself but not before knocking over a bar stool. I looked around quickly to see if anyone noticed, but the bar seemed deserted. Good. Then I heard a laugh and looked down the bar. My heart sank. As my eyes adjusted to the dim bar light, there sat the skankiest looking woman I had ever seen; a friend of a friend of a friend, married to another friend, who I would rather not be seen with, much less spend the afternoon drinking with. Oh well, thought I, one beer and I will be on my way. Yes, that's it. The bartender, a crippled biker hippie named Joe, came over and I ordered an ice cold Heineken. He reached with studied efficiency into just the right cooler, packed with ice and Heineken beer. In a practiced move, he twirled and popped the top on an ancient can-opener on the inside of the bar. The cap fell with a tinkle among the hundreds already there and he handed me the bottle, ice running down its sides and cold mist forming at the top of the bottle. He doesn't offer me a glass. I've been here before. I take a long pull on it, feeling the beer's icy coldness cut through the dust and parched feeling at the back of my throat. Ahhh...!

I had hopes that Sinbad, the skanky woman at the other end of the bar, would just stay at the other end of the bar. I watched her out of the corner of my eye. Maybe if I don't make eye contact she will leave me alone... yeah, maybe. Maybe not too. God,  ugly was too good a word for her, believe me. But no, my luck wasn't holding; here she came, staggering down the bar. It was only 1 o'clock in the afternoon, but apparently she had been here in the bar for some time. "Hey Dan! Whatcha ya doing? Out for a ride?" she said, in a sloppy, slurred, drunken voice, the little drops of spittle flying from her mouth being illuminated in the thin streak of sunshine finding its way through the dilapidated window blinds. As she lit another cigarette (though I saw one still burning in the ashtray at the spot she had just vacated) she reached over and pulled a bug out of my beard. I noticed her fingernails were chewed down to the quick, and her eyes had a dull, glassy look to them that only comes after years of really serious alcohol and drug abuse. Her breath reeked of booze and bad teeth. "Hey, ya got a joint man? I could really go for a good buzz!" she said, like she hadn't already put on a very good alcohol buzz. I did happen to have my hitter with me, of course, but I didn't feel like wasting it on her, much less having her slobbering all over it.

"No Sinbad, I don't," I said, not lying, but not offering to say I had some pot in my hitter box. I noticed the bartender looking at me as she moved to sit next to me. I looked at him as if to say, "What am I going to do now?" He just snorted, said nothing, and kept on wiping the bar the way only a seasoned bartender knows how to do. So I sat there wishing that she hadn't tugged my beard. There seemed to be something in her touch creeping through it now. I took another pull on my beer, noticing it was nearly empty. She noticed too, of course.

"Whatcha drinking?" she asked. I held up my Heiny and then took another long pull, nearly draining it, thinking perhaps to leave and find another bar that didn't have a Sinbad in it. "Hey bartender! Get him another, and get another for me too!", she blurted, spittle flying from her mouth, this time well across the bar. My mind was working furiously. The last thing I wanted to do was to spend the afternoon here with her. Other than she and me and the bartender, the place was deserted, and though the bar was supposedly air conditioned by an ancient crusted machine wheezing in a boarded up window, it was still very warm, and smelled like puke and stale cigarettes. Then I realized it wasn't the bar that smelled, it was Sinbad. Oh Christ, why do these things always happen to me? I wondered silently.

The second beer tasted mighty fine, though, I had to admit. By and by, Sinbad stumbled to the bathroom, and I considered making a quick get away, but then again, another beer seemed like it might go down really good too, so I decided to go ahead and have another. I called the bartender over and told him to give Sinbad another drink too. "What's she drinking?" I asked him. "Rum and coke" was his reply. "Make it a double Joe, no, wait, a  triple!" I said, feeling the makings of a plan arising in the back of my mind. He complied without complaint. Joe's about my age but looks much older, and is your typical burned out motorcycle hippie, who had lost his drivers license for drunk motorcycle riding three years ago after he crashed his bike and broke both his legs, as well as scudding off half his nose. His third DUI conviction. But he was a good Joe. He had bought the bar with his insurance settlement and now that was where he stayed, night and day. Had a trailer out back. In fact, I had bought my Honda from Joe a couple years back, one of a half dozen bikes he used to own.

Sinbad stumbled out of  the bathroom, tripping over the same runner I had stumbled over, cursing as she did so. Now I realized why it was all bunched up like that;  it was her doing, the stupid bitch. Joe paid it no mind, just went on wiping and washing, wiping and washing. Sinbad went to the one window in the place and saw my bike under the little grove of trees that grew outside the bar. "Say, I sure could use a ride, whadya say Dan?" she said. "Let's have another drink first, Sinbad", I said. "Besides, I just ordered you a fresh drink." She came back over and sat down and swilled most of the new drink in one gulp, not noticing the strength of it, apparently. She lit another cigarette and farted very loudly, giggling hysterically, with drool running down her chin. I moved off to the other end of the bar until the cloud around her dissipated, studying the jute box and selecting a few more Bob Dylan tunes. He was sounding mighty fine today.

"Bartender, give us another round down here, Goddamn it anyway", she said, very loudly and very obnoxiously. I looked up from the jute box and saw Joe give her a dirty look, and I held up three fingers at him to signal that he should hit her again with another triple shot. Joe complied. I could see the bottle of rum go up over and over till her rather large glass was nearly full. Then just a little bitty squirt of coke. Oh boy. Christ, can't she tell she's drinking nearly straight rum? "Hey Joe, keep the rum and cokes coming, will ya?" I said to him, winking. "I'll settle up with you when I leave."  I figured one or two more should just about do it. She was already starting to spit on the floor and seemed ready to topple any time now. Yes, one or two more should do it very nicely I smile to myself.

Sure enough, the third triple shot was definitely the one that got her. She downed it about the same time I was finishing my third beer and I waved Joe over to set her up again, holding up three fingers. She had stopped talking now and was just looking around at the empty bar, her mouth hanging open and her eyes not really seeing anything. She pulled up her shirt and scratched a scrawny banana looking tit. Yes, it certainly wouldn't be long now. By the time Joe got back with her drink though, she was ready for it and, after gulping two-thirds of it down, she reached over to put the glass back on the bar, and missed. It fell to the floor, scattering ice cubes amid the cigarette butts and dirt that adorned the never swept floor of the dive. By the time I reached down and retrieved it, she had passed out cold, head down on the bar, her hair in the full ashtray in front of her, with a puddle of piss forming under her barstool, dripping off the seat and pooling under her.

Yes, I could see that it was time for me to take leave of the little dive. I settled up with Joe, who said "What am I supposed to do with her?" in a pleading voice, motioning with his chin at the prone carcass hunched over the bar. Poor Joe. I gave him another twenty dollar bill after taking one from Sinbad's pile too and told him to keep the change. I suggested calling her old man to come and get her. He would be pissed, no doubt, but hell, I sure wasn't taking her with me! What was I gonna do, bungy cord her to the back of my bike? I don't think so! I walked out and fired up the bike and scooted off with a good beer buzz going, smiling at my ingenuity and inventiveness. Life was good! And the road was straight and open ahead of me.

The End!