Their Daisy Dukes and midriff-revealing tops make me wistful for hot summer days.Ones I’ve sadly waved goodbye to for the year.Ones these women cling to in an admirable manner.
Now, it’s completely possible the members of Sip ’N’ Stitch treat the gathering like a tailgate party.But the bar’s newest arrivals also have no kinds of supplies.Not even a purse between them.
Not the group I’m waiting for, but I still offer a friendly smile when their sharp eyes settle on me.
One smiles back with a wink, and the other two dismiss me in favor of leaning on the bar to call out drink orders to Grunt.He has no name tag, so that’s what I’ve named him.A small twinge of worry in my chest disappears when he doesn’t talk to these women either.At least I’m not the only one unworthy of verbal acknowledgment.
I go back to door-gazing.
The girls get their drinks and claim a table, their laughter bringing brightness to the dingy bar.
Five minutes pass.I sip my drink.
Ten minutes go.I realize I’m halfway through my glass and tell myself to slow down.
Another five.
Shouldn’t someone have shown up by now?
Could they have canceled this week’s get-together?
The flyer said Sip ’N’ Stitch meets at The Rabbit Hole every Wednesday night at seven p.m.No mention of blackout dates, and today is not any holiday that I know of.
I’m about to check if my phone gets service here so maybe I can look up announcements on the library’s website when a soft roaring rumbles from outside the bar.
The girls’ chatter pauses briefly, then starts up again with renewed vigor.I take another precious sip of my bourbon as the familiar sound grows louder, giving me an unexpected taste of home.
Away for less than a week, but I guess I’ve been missing it.
Soon, there’s an almost-orchestra-level of roaring engines, the chorus practically surrounding the bar.
That’s when I realize theyaresurrounding the bar.
Apparently, in small towns, holding a crocheting club at a biker bar is no big deal.
The bikes begin to cut off their roaring engines, and I can envision a crowd of them lining up on the blacktop I crossed—I glance at my watch—a half hour ago.
Fifteen minutes late?Time for me to call it.
Looks like my attempt at subverting my introverted tendencies has failed.I glance at the girls, wondering if I should go over and introduce myself.Try to make some friends anyway.
But their smoky eyes continue to skitter toward the entrance, and I sense that I’d just be an obstruction to their evening entertainment.
Instead, I face the bar and focus on the last of my bourbon, satisfied that I at least left the cabin and found myself a decent drink.
Without anyone’s prompting, Grunt puts two pitchers under the taps, filling them to the brim.
Seems the regulars have arrived.
Some bikes are still settling down when the front door’s hinges squeak and deep voices fill the room.The once-quiet bar is now overwhelmed with the noise of rowdy men.Or maybe I’m just the one feeling overwhelmed.The shouts and ribbing and grumbles and laughter shouldn’t be unpleasant.
Only it’s like taking a week vacation from work, then finding out your boss booked a stay in the same hotel.
I came to this town to getawayfrom rambunctious men.
Picking up my drink, I swirl the remaining liquid, considering finishing it off in one large swallow.
But that’s wasteful, and it’s not as if the bikers are doing anything to me.
