Drinks. Billiards. Girls. Fun.
This is the last place I expected to see tonight and the exact opposite of what I imagined when I suggested a quiet place to talk. There’s conspiratorial glee growing in Derick’s eyes. I’ve already got a bad feeling about this.
The Lonely Lass-O is one of the seediest storied joints in Willow Valley, known for its scantily clad waitresses, its brusque clientele, and its back-alley brawls over girls or bar tabs or both.
Derick seems unfazed as he flashes his ID to the bouncer who has a graying beard right down to his stubby, exposed knees.
“This is a joke, right?” My uncertainty magnifies when we’re waved inside.
He says deadpan, “I don’t joke about chicken wings.”
Flabbergasted, I covertly set the timer on my phone. He’s got thirty minutes.
I expect the inside to be hazier, smoke-filled, and deafeningly loud, but the music is crackly and the air is lemon zesty. The bar is circular, light wood and spacious. Servers wearing Daisy Dukes and flannels tied into midriffs rove about their sections taking orders as Luke Bryan plays.
It’s honky-tonk rustic with a slapdash urban flair. Think Hooters if you threw leather chaps and spurs on it. The walls are wood-paneled, covered in wagon wheels and whips.
A white, stocky man with a buzz cut comes over to us, recognition in his countenance. “Derick, buddy boy, didn’t think you’d be back here until we hired some male servers,” he says, the borderline offensive humor not landing the way he intends it to.
“Wouldn’t kill you to diversify your staff a bit,” Derick replies. Underneath the clean scent, there is the pervasive stench of patriarchal bullshit. My skin crawls.
“We’re shortchanged as it is. We take who we can get. Either of you looking for a gig? I think I’ve got a few pairs of booty shorts in your sizes.” He doesn’t sound like he’s joking. I don’t even have a booty to show off in a pair of booty shorts. My ass is one long extension of my back. I could stand do a squat or two, but that’s too much effort for my busy schedule.
“We’re both gainfully employed, thanks,” Derick says.
“Working with your dad still? I know he’s making headway on that big bus-line expansion.”
“Uh, no, not exactly,” Derick says, a bit flustered. “I’m helping out over at Wiley’s Drive-In. Wren is the manager there. That’s why we’re out so late. We’re here for the wings.”
The man nods as if he, too, takes his football-game-day poultry dishes super seriously. “You want a high top, or should I seat you two toward the back?”
“The back, please,” I say, noticing the inquiring looks from those around us. They aren’t the types I’d want to have overhear our conversation.
The man takes us into a roped-off section near the kitchen doors. We pass scraggly men and women scooping mixed nuts out of wooden bowls. Guess I didn’t get the memo about this being a “Boots Only” establishment because everyone, even the waitresses, are wearing calf-high leather with custom stitching.
“Two orders of the dry rub,” Derick says when we sit. “And all the celery you got.”
“Anything to drink?” the man asks.
“Can I have a Coke?” My earlier Mountain Dew wave of awareness is faltering, even though Avery plied me with a steady IV stream of it. A heady caffeine crash is coming for me if I don’t act fast.
“Is Pepsi okay?” he asks. I internally cringe but externally say, “Water will be fine. Thanks.” I’d rather crash than drink the devil’s syrup.
Derick orders water too. “Thanks, Uncle Leon.”
When the man disappears through the swinging doors beside us, I ask, “Uncle Leon?”
“My mom’s older brother. The one who was getting married when Damien was born.”
“How did this never come up in high school?”
He shrugs. “You think my dad would ever soil our family image by advertising our association with a place like this? Nah. But he’s more than happy to make a profit off it. He actually owns the property. My uncle just manages the joint.” Derick shakes his head at the extent of his father’s power in this town. “Anyway, this place has a strict eighteen-and-over policy.”
“But it seems like you can still get service without shoes and a shirt.” I incline my chin toward the redheaded waitress who’s on her break at the bar. She’s still wearing her uniform, but her boots are kicked off beneath her seat. A man in a Led Zeppelin shirt captivates her with talk of his home garden.
Derick’s leisurely grin falters. “If this is awkward, we can take the wings to-go.”
“No, I’m fine. Really.” I’m surprised to find a semblance of truth in this. Overall, the place seems chill, not entirely living up to its infamous name.
