Thirty Women Walk Into A Bar

Sheriff Tom was leaving Jackie’s Cold Day Inn just as I was arriving. “Don’t go inside,” he said. “Women Only Night starts in half an hour. No men allowed. If you wanna drink let’s go to my office. I got some Kentucky bourbon I took offa the Johnson boy. He said it was for his daddy but I know his daddy don’t drink bourbon. Too mild, he says, no substitute for white lightning.”

Tom served up two fingers of bourbon in a glass for me and two in a cup for himself.

“So what’s the story on Women Only Night?”

“Ask around you’ll hear all kinds of doings that just ain’t true. The women won’t say and the men plain don’t know. I don’t know all of it for sure. My wife never misses a meeting. After the third meeting I asked her what they talked about, she says, ‘space, time, and the immutability of the soul’. We been married a lotta years. She answers like that it means ‘none of your business, sweetheart.’ I’m smart enough to let it go."

He rolled his chair back and put his feet up on his desk. I settled in for a story.

“You know why men like me become law enforcement?”

He didn’t wait for an answer.

“We do it because we’re curious, always wanna know who, what, when, where, why, and how. My wife says I’m just nosy. Fact is, we hafta know everything about everybody, can’t help it. We just wanna know. Being on the job we get to know what everybody’s up to, good and bad.

“Now, a good sheriff won’t ever tell what he knows about somebody to anybody else. He’ll just keep it in his mind, helps him decide when to hammer somebody down or just let something slide. Anybody knows me will tell you I don’t spread gossip. Oh, I might tell a thing or two, but I never hurt anybody with it. Bottom line, people trust me with things they won’t tell their minister even when they’re dying.

"You’re curious just like me. Sometimes I think you shoulda been a cop instead of a traveling salesman.

“You wanna know about Women Only Night and I’m inclined to tell you what I found out by asking questions here and there. When I had most of it figured out I asked Jackie. She told me enough to put it all together and now I owe her.

“If you ever let out what I told you, you better hope you see me before Jackie sees you. Keep in mind, mercy’s just a word to her. And trust means as much to her as it does to me.”

I promised not to repeat what he told me but I filed it away for some future date in some other town; someplace where nobody knew Tom or Jackie in a galaxy long ago and far, far away.

Jackie thought it would be nice to give the townswomen a place to get together away from their daily cares and tasks. She would serve coffee, tea, wine and cheese. So it was official.

Jackie announced that henceforth Tuesday night Happy Hour was cancelled at Jackie’s Cold Day Inn. In its place, Jackie’s would host Women Only Night. 

Men had their clubs, bars, bull sessions at Les’s General Store or at the post office where they congregated whether or not they were expecting mail. But the women were mostly alone, seeing each other by one’s and two’s at the market or after church on Sundays. The Ladies’ Auxiliary met every Thursday in the basement of the church where the minister praised them endlessly, the holy women of his congregation; hovering over them like a shepherd and his sheep, keeping them in line. Now at Jackie's they could meet with no kids or men underfoot. They could talk about anything at all.

Some of the men weren’t happy about the end of Happy Hour or the prospect of Women Only Night. They feared that the women would probably take the occasion to speak plainly about them, and they were right about that except that they greatly overestimated how much of the evenings’ talk would actually be about them. Women had other things on their minds besides the men in their lives.

  

Jackie was disappointed but not surprised when only three of her friends came to the first Women Only Night. She never expected the church ladies to show up at a bar for goodness’ sake, but still. In the following weeks the attendees grew to six, then seven and eventually twelve women became regulars. Becky and two other churchwomen showed up, apparently prepared to pass judgment on the other women. Jackie welcomed them anyway.

At the sixth meeting the women talked about the kids or some everyday things like before but little by little they relaxed and sipped more wine than tea. Then one of the women literally let her hair down. She loosened the bun that pulled her skin tight against her skull and her hair cascaded over her shoulders.

It was an epiphany. Everyone gaped at the transformation. No one had ever seen her hair any other way except in a bun atop her head. Then another woman unbuttoned the top button of her blouse, releasing the tight collar on her neck. She ran her hands furiously through her hair, grabbed her wine glass and downed it one luxurious swallow.

Jackie laughed at the two rebels and offered more wine. The other women raised their glasses for refills. Cheers all around.

Becky, the leading church lady and her companions sat wide eyed, hands clutching the edge of the table, looking like they were going to stroke out. Then Becky passed gas – long and loud -- the laughing stopped abruptly. Everyone stared at her.

Becky, whose piety and correctness had never faltered, who had never been known for anything but prim propriety, said the only thing that came to her mind at that instant, something her grandmother said to her when she was just a little girl.

“That was an upside down hiccup.” A tiny pause then she burst out laughing.

The gossip about that sixth meeting spread among the women of the town like a grass fire and the membership soon grew to more than thirty women. The men groused among themselves but there was nothing they could do about it. They still thought the women were talking about them, probably making comparisons.

By now the group was too large to hold at one table so they broke up into several small groups, some women moving from one group to another until they found a table where the talk interested them. They scratched where they itched, kicked off their shoes; some loosened their bra straps, told dirty jokes, talked about truth and justice; a book they read, beauty tips, dreams both pending or broken.

What they’d done was break out of the roles that their gender and history created for them from birth. One day a week they weren’t anybody’s wife, girlfriend, or mother. They were just themselves, whoever they were. It was heaven.

The novelty of their freedom didn’t wear off in the subsequent weeks but once they’d blown off much of the steam they’d held in for years, they became more unified. They formed voting blocs to cancel out their husbands’ votes when they agreed a political issue was better to pass or fail for the greater good. They set up teams of volunteers to visit shut-ins, give them company, cook some meals, make them feel wanted. They discussed problems common to many of them, the means to solve them or simply to commiserate if no solution was available. They told jokes and recounted ancestral stories real and fictional.

One evening Becky and the other church ladies were talking about the Bible. No one joked about religion. It wasn’t a hot topic anyway. There is a time for prayers and meditation. Women Only Night isn’t one of those times. However, the question Becky asked made the women think in imaginative ways.

Becky taught Sunday School, had for years. Though she had read and studied the Bible, discussed it with the minister for hours on end, she was stumped for an answer when one her students, a little boy, wanted to know where Caine and Abel got their wives.

Fortunately, the bell for services rang before Becky answered her inquisitor. She was literally saved by the bell. The question bothered her and she was loath to tell the child that the brothers had married their sisters. The child was just six, for heaven’s sake, and the thought of marrying his sister would make him retch. The minister left town to visit the bishop before she could consult with him so she put the question to the women at the next Women Only Night.

Well, anybody who’s read Genesis and thought about it for five minutes can conclude that Adam and Eve had more kids, including daughters who are rarely mentioned or named in Bible stories. Adam and Eve lived for 930 years, lots of time for making babies. Logically, the brothers must have had to marry their sisters in order to bring about the human race.

Some of the women became thoughtful. They’d never considered where Caine and Abel’s wives came from. They’d read the Bible but didn’t think another step past the words, like some people roll through a stop sign never thinking what it means.

No, not this Caine

After some back and forth Becky decided to wait for the minister’s return for an answer that wouldn’t frighten the children.

But the question wouldn’t go away just like that.

Jackie said maybe there was more than one Garden of Eden, you know, East Eden, West Eden, North, South, each with its own Adam and Eve. Each producing children after they were tossed out of their respective gardens.

Actually, anything was possible, Jackie said. Could be there was a Garden of Eden in North America, another in Asia, one in Africa, Australia even.

A woman sitting at the next table wondered how do you account for different races if all the Edens were near each other?

The answer came from Table 7: Some newlyweds didn’t get along with each others families so they packed up their stuff and moved to Africa where over millennia, their skin got sunburned, each generation got darker and darker. Other couples moved to China where the sun was so bright that they had to squint. Over centuries the shape of their eyes changed.

All those notions sounded too far-fetched for the women at Table 3. After much talk and lots of wine, they judged that Jackie’s first idea was more practical. There were several gardens close enough to each other that the families could intermingle and marry. With four gardens the gene pool would be deep enough that genetic distortions would be minimal.

They proposed:

Adam and Eve in the East Garden

John and Helen in the West Garden

Brad and Angelina in the North Garden

Ken and Barbie in the South Garden

Table 1 drained and refilled their wine glasses and objected.

With all these weddings, they said, who planned the ceremonies and made the decorations? There had to be a Garden that had gays. They would pick the colors and themes, make seating arrangements, hire the caterers, design the wedding dresses, and book the honeymoon destinations.

Steve and Lance in the Hidden Garden, they said, couldn’t wait to get started.

The women cheered and toasted Table 3’s five Garden invention.

The women at Table 4 suggested the Handyman Garden featuring Larry, Darryl and Darryl. It was rejected (eeew). 

With the Caine and Abel question settled, the women went on to talk about next week’s meeting.

At 9:30 Jackie announced last call. She and Wendy began collecting the wine glasses, empty wine bottles and serving hot coffee. Closing time was 10:00 o’clock sharp.

The women touched up their hair, smoothed their dresses, slurped coffee, and prepared to go home. A few of them asked for a second cup.

Becky was among the last to leave. She helped Jackie clean up and said, “I just know that child is gonna ask me next why Caine killed Abel. I’ll just tell him what the Good Book says.”

As Jackie gently pushed her out the door she said, “Becky, careful now, you had a lot of wine tonight. Don’t tell that kid the real answer: God likes a good barbecue and He hates veggie burgers.”

Abel's OK

Caine, not so much

Friday Night Fights

We're gonna need a bigger horse, son.

A TV propped on a plank between two stepladders at the far side of the bar said it all… Jackie’s is giving in to the competition from the sports bars. There was a note stuck on the screen with masking tape. It was too far away to read so I got closer. The note said, “Nobody but Jackie turns it on. Violators will be required to settle their bar tab and go away until I say you can come back.”

Jackie came up from behind, tapped me on the shoulder, and said, “That means you, too, city boy.”

This bar’s never had a TV or a jukebox. The regulars come here for a quiet place to have some drinks and conversation, or just to sit alone. Sheriff Tom is one of the regulars. Rowdies and troublemakers find out soon enough that quiet people can get rough if rough is what’s required to keep the peace. Nobody can remember the last time there was a fight at Jackie’s Cold Day Inn.

I come here to rest my mind after spending the day pitching farm equipment, trying to convince farmers to replace 40 year old machinery; or ranchers that they need to replace old-fashioned augers with new ones that dig post holes faster and with less chance of injury to their ranch hands.

When I say I pitch I mean I’m a major leaguer, throwing high fastballs and diving sliders one after another. My company says I’m a star salesman. Most of the time the farmers and ranchers are smart enough to figure out what’s coming and they hit homers off me more often than not. Even when they’re ready to buy they’ll make me keep pitching a while longer before they sign the dotted line. But I do well enough to make a living at it, plus I like driving all over the panhandle on deserted county roads to meet my customers. It feels like my minor league days going from town to town to play the local baseball teams. 

If my boss offered me twice the money to work at company headquarters I’d say no. I don’t know that I could stand it, sitting in an office, knowing the open road is out there without me. 

I got my drink at the bar and took a table near the door where Sheriff Tom, Les, and Doc Harris usually sit in the late afternoon.

No TV, no Jukebox, no whining

They turned up together and joined me. I asked if the TV was for a football game.

Les said, “Nope. Not football. Six o’clock press conference the governor is giving Johnny Summers a medal for winning the National Roping Tournament in Denver. He hasn’t lived here since he was 12 but he’s still one of ours more or less.”

Five minutes later Jackie turned the TV on, volume up high. The governor went on and on talking about everything except why he and Johnny Summers were there. An aide whispered something in his ear and the governor got down to the business of the day. He put a thick rope lanyard with a medal around Johnny’s neck and invited him to say a few words. Staring straight ahead, all the poor kid could manage was “Hi, Mom”. The governor slid in front of him and thanked everybody for being there and said goodnight.

I don’t know what else Jackie or the men in the bar were expecting. Maybe a fight? Or maybe the kid would hogtie the crooked governor, turn him over to the State Police. One or two of the patrons hooted and clapped when governor mentioned Johnny’s hometown, the rest went back to their conversations and drinks. Jackie turned the TV off.

Gary and Mike from the Conoco station, still in their greasy coveralls, were sitting at the bar telling Jackie some story about a fight they saw at Billy’s Last Stand. If I had to guess Jim and Angel were in it somehow but I was too far away to hear the details.

We watched Gary tell his story, punching the air with his hairy fist showing Jackie the hit that took a cowboy down. Jackie, head back, slapping her hands on the bar, laughing.

Gary finished his story and Jackie came to our table with fresh drinks and clean ashtrays.

Tom asked her who Gary was talking about.

“Jim and Angel”, she said.

Doc Harris pulled dollar bill from his shirt pocket and slid it into Les’s open palm.

At the far end of the bar Wendy was pouring coffee for a customer.

I pointed to the man and said, “Coffee?”

Les glanced over his shoulder and said, “Yeah, that’s Rollie. Been on the wagon off and on going on five years now.

“After he spent three days in the County Jail he made up his mind to stop drinking. Well, maybe not stop altogether but cut down some so that at least he could remember what happened the night before.

“The way I heard it, he’s doing all right first week or so, has three beers, then asks for coffee before heading home. Looking good except this particular night, Cindy, a waitress at the Itchy Kitty Topless Bar brings his coffee but all she’s got is Equal. He says, “Darlin’ this stuff gives me headaches. Can you get me some real sugar?” She goes back to the bar, comes back and says, no, this is all we got.

“He’s fighting the urge to say screw it, gimme me another beer. Instead he calls out to the bartender to get him some real sugar. Bartender shakes his head, no. That hits his last nerve so he makes a fuss over what kinda cheap ass place this is that don’t have real goddam U - S – A, All-American SUGAR.

“Mandy, she owns the place, was in the back room checking inventory, hears him hollering. She doesn’t need another ruckus that’ll bring the Sheriff. Just an hour before some jackleg got too familiar with one of the dancers. Tom here put him down with kick in the pants, sent him on his way. Anyway, Mandy, she goes over, stands behind Rollie and says real nice, ‘Cindy, is he getting fresh? Rollie, what do you want? ’

“He whips around, spreads his arms wide and says, “Mandy, all’s I want is a little sugar.”

“Mandy’s been in the business 30 years or more. It’s late, she’s tired, wants to go home. Randy cowboys are nothing new at the Itchy Kitty. She’s a big woman, 250 at least, hands big as fry pans. She slaps him upside his head, sits him down, tells him to stay, tells Cindy put a shirt on and bring back some menudo from the Mexican place three doors down.”

“Ah, menudo,” said Doc Harris. “The breakfast of people who oughta know better.”

Everybody, even the Sheriff, looked at Doc Harris. Menudo? Breakfast of what?

Doc leaned back in his chair, a sure sign he had a story. He took his time, slow sipping his bourbon.

“Long time ago, when Jorge was new in town I saw him come stumbling out of Chato’s late one night. Looked to me like Tom or Deputy Dudley would put him in the tank overnight if they saw him. I figured I’d save the Sheriff some paperwork and Jorge some embarrassment so I said I’d take him home but he said take me to Rosario’s Diner first.

“He said, ‘Amigo, the best way to fix a hangover or get sober is eat a big bowl of menudo at Rosario’s Diner.’ I asked what’s in it, he says, ‘Hominy, tripe, some other stuff. It’s not something you like right away especially if you’re in the kitchen while mamacita’s making it.

‘First she boils two pounds of chopped tripe in a big pot. It smells like road kill been sitting in the sun for a day. Once it’s cooked enough she adds her mother’s chili mix. Rosario says she uses four kinds of peppers. After that she adds some soup bones, salt, garlic cloves, and fills the pot with hominy. She lets it boil for a while, then sets it to simmer on the stove.

Four kinds of peppers and other spices Rosario will never reveal 

‘It doesn’t smell like road kill anymore and I can’t tell you what it smells like because I don’t care. I want some now. Serve it in a big bowl, add some chopped onions and oregano flakes, a hard roll on the side. Before you know it your sinuses are so clear you can breathe through your ears, you can focus with both eyes at the same time; your headache is going away. Downside is your mouth and throat’s burning up and you can’t stop eating.’”

The first bowl is only $1.75

“I got Jorge home safe and sound. Me being a doctor and all I gotta keep up with advances in medicine. If I can find some way to make menudo pills I’ll be rich. Might have to marry Rosario to get the recipe. Problem is, what to do about her husband, fittest man in the county, probly live to a hundred.”

Tom said, “Menudo. Maybe I’ll have Rosario fix me a batch to have at the jail on weekends. The closing time cowboy roundup usually means three, four of ‘em be seeing me or my Deputy come Sunday morning.”

Mike and Gary finished their drinks, paid Jackie. As they passed by on their way out, Les asked Mike what they said to Jackie to make her laugh.

Mike said, “Happened Friday two weeks ago at Billy’s. This guy, Donny, new guy on the road crew, starts ragging another guy just because. He likes to talk tough, start fights but only if there’s somebody there to stop ‘em before it comes to blows. The guy ignores him but Donny won’t let it go, starts getting personal. What he don’t know is the guy he’s ragging is Jim. His friends don’t know it’s Jim either. They don’t know his wife, Angel’s standing next to him.

“Now, all ah you know Jim never throws the first punch. If you wanna fight ‘im you better square up tight and don’t look at his face too long. More’n one cowboy’s backed off when Jim gets that killer look in his eyes. If anything, they oughta look out for Angel. She don’t wait for the first punch. First sign of intent, she’s attacking with everything she’s got. Man, woman, tall, short, don’t matter to her. Most times it’s Jim gotta pull her off.

“I tried to warn Donny but he laughed saying Jim was scared to fight ‘cause his old lady would cut him off if he went home all beat to hell. His buddies laughed and hooted, having fun.”

“Jim don’t say nothin’, looks around the bar, waves at some guys at the pool table in the back.

“Angel, she turns around facing the guy and says, ‘Cowboy, you got a wife or a girlfriend? What’s your girlfriend gonna say if you tell her you got beat up by girl?’

“Donny don’t even look her way, he says, ‘Baby, this ain’t your fight. Leave it to the men.’

“Jim says, ‘Angel, let it be.’ He turns his back and Donny looks around, showing off to his friends, makes like he’s gonna throw a punch. Quick as a cat, Angel gives him a knee in the crotch. He goes into a crouch grabbing the family jewels with both hands and she finishes him off with an overhand cross. BAM! Like this. Coupla Donny’s friends start to make a move but Jim looks them off, puts some money on the bar, takes Angel’s arm and they go home.”

No, not these family jewels

Tom said, “Wonder of wonders, the Deputy’s report said everybody in the bar was deaf and blind that night.”

Gary and Mike left. Nobody said anything for a while, probably filing the story away for retelling some other day. Tom puffed on his Cheroot. Les and Doc stirred their drinks with their fingers.

I said, “Why is it there’s so much talk about fights, even fights that happened a long time ago?”

They were quiet for moment, thinking. Tom was the first to speak.

“I think it's football”, he said. “You’ve been around these parts and you know how folks live and die by their team. Boys start young, peewee leagues, up through high school. They’re buttin’ heads and bodies against each other year after year then graduation and just like that it’s over.

Once you graduate, it's over

And I say unto you ... Touchdown!

“Early training like that don’t go away. Young fellas, years out of school, still feel that urge to hit somebody different from them, start fights for no good reason. Then the day comes when the bruises don’t heal so fast, or they see double too many days after. The blood cools, gets up to their brains and they think maybe fighting’s a waste of time and body. The boys become men. Look around, no boys in this bar.”

Tom stubbed out his Cheroot and leaned back.

In a low voice Les said, “You know folks here don’t have a lotta money for entertainment. Most days are boring from sunrise to sunset. Nighttime’s no better. Every day is near the same. Same cattle, cotton, rain, no rain, same troubles every day one after the other. Everybody’s day is the same as everybody else’s. Nothing happens that hasn’t happened the same way a thousand times before.

“Fights get the blood up, a few drinks on top of that and the fights get better and better every time you tell it. People listening eat it up. A two-minute fight can take 20 to tell if you do it right. And no two fights are the same. If two, three other people seen it, they’ll tell different sides of a story. Kinda like instant replay with lotsa camera angles.

“Think a minute. Nobody has cars or trucks worth a damn, besides we need them for work. Can’t race them, and truck pulls, mud rallies probly turn up bad trannies, stripped gears or worse. Can’t risk it. Talking fights beats sitting around watching TV preachers promising to save me from burnin’ in a ‘Lake of Fire’ for eternity if I give ‘em my money. Hell, I had a secret way to heaven I give it away for free.”

Doc chuckled and said, “And if you’re thinking about stepping out on your wife or girlfriend for something to do, well, don’t even try it. I’m not saying there’s not some cheating going on here and there but keeping it quiet only lasts a minute or two. Hang around Maggie over at the post office. Don’t know how she does it but she’ll know if you’re cheating even if you’re only thinking about it.

“Good news or bad, gossip travels fast. Truck breaks down, the news gets to town before you do. Swear to god, one time my truck quit on the 221 about 35 miles out. I hitched a ride with a tourist passing through. I get out of his car, go to the post office, Maggie hands me my mail, says, ‘I heard you left your truck on the 221.’”

A one minute story

The way he grinned I couldn’t decide if he was telling the truth or lying.

Tom stood up, ready to leave. He put some bills on the table and said, “The next round’s on me.”

He looked at me and said, “Son, a truck breaking down ain’t much of a story, happens to somebody every day. Doc just told you the whole thing in two, three sentences, less than a minute. A good fight story, nobody knows how it starts or how it’s gonna turn out ‘til it’s over. Now which stories do you wanna hear?”

He put on his hat, nodded towards Jackie at the bar and went out the door.