I take one last look in the bathroom mirror. The face looking back at me is good. Eyes that photograph well. I’m five-eight and toned. Pilates and the occasional burst of vanity-driven weight work. I’m not big, but I know how to carry what I’ve got like it’s the most valuable thing in any room.
I learned young that looking good made people ask fewer questions. Every morning I put on the chain, the rings,the eyeliner, fix my hair, and hope nobody looks too closely past the surface.
I video call my best friend Dante while I’m doing my eyeliner. He picks up on the second ring. He’s in his high-rise condo in Miami, shirtless, eating out of a takeout container. His dark hair is wet from a shower and there’s a baseball game on the TV behind him. He takes one look at my face on his screen and raises his eyebrows.
“Where are you going dressed like that?” he asks.
“Out.”
“Out where? You’re in, what is it, Panama City? Where is there for a gay man to go in Panama City?”
“There’s a biker bar on the beach fifteen minutes from here. It has a deck right on the water and the reviews say the brisket there is life-changing. I’m starving, I’ve had a rough day, and I need a decent cocktail with a sunset.”
“A biker bar.” Dante puts his fork down. “What the hell are you thinking, Benji? A biker bar in the Florida Panhandle? With you looking like that?”
“Like what?”
“An example of a potential hate crime statistic. For fuck’s sake, Benji. I love you, and I’m asking you with all my love and affection. Don’t go there or anywhere in Panama City dressed like that.”
“Dante, you’re overreacting as usual. It’ll be fine. It’s not even late. I’ll be back by eight o’clock before all the crazies get too drunk.”
“No, don’t do it. Please, order food and stay in. I’ll keep you company on video. We’ll watch something. I’ll eat, you’ll eat, it’ll be like we’re in the same room.”
“I’m going, Dante. I’ve been here three days and I’m going crazy. I need people and life. I need a drink that I don’t pour myself in a kitchen the size of a closet. God… I miss Miami so much already. I wish we were at a club right now. This town sucks.”
“Promise me you’ll be very careful,” he says. “Text me while you’re there. Keep me informed while you’re watching your sunset. Then leave and get your ass out of there.”
“I’m always careful. You know that.”
“You’re never careful,” he says. “You’re the opposite of careful. You’re a man who is putting on makeup before walking into a biker bar in a county that voted seventy-three percent red. The reason I know that statistic is because you told me so I know it’s true. And I know you’re going anyway because that’s what you do.”
“I’ll text you when I get there,” I say. “And when I leave. And if anything happens in between.”
I hang up and slide the phone in my back pocket. I spritz cologne on my wrists and the base of my throat. Dante’s warning sits in the back of my head, but I’ve walked into rooms where I wasn’t supposed to be my whole life.
The world is full of rooms that weren’t built for me and I’ve never once let that stop me. I’m sure as hell not starting tonight.
I walk out the front door and get into my little car that I drove from Miami. I could’ve flown to save time, but then I would’ve had to deal with a rental car.
The air here is nothing like Miami. In Miami, the night is heavy and electric, full of bass. Here the air is thick with salt and a breeze blowing in off the water.
Sunset is in forty-five minutes. If I leave now, I’ll make it.
The drive to Big Tex’s Roadhouse takes twelve minutes. I pull into a lot that’s almost full of big trucks. Old trucks. Trucks with things painted on the tailgates. And between the trucks, the cars. Dozens of classic muscle cars gleaming under the lights. Camaros, Chevelles, Mustangs, GTOs. All polished to a mirror shine, all surrounded by men in jeans and baseball caps holding beers.
Oh God, I forgot about the classic car show being in town. The condo property manager mentioned it when I picked up the keys. “Big weekend,” she said. “Car guys from all over. Gets a little rowdy.” Oh well, I’m not here to hang around and talk about cars I know nothing about. I’m here for a drink and a view.
Big Tex’s Roadhouse is three stories of concrete with a huge sign out front. The building sits right on the beach. The Gulf of Mexico spreads out beyond it, the water catching the last of the sunlight. Music pours through the open windows, mixing with the crack of pool balls. The bar sounds busy and full.
I straighten my shirt and button nothing. Then I walk through the front door.
The inside of Big Tex’s hits me in the nose before my eyes adjust. Hickory smoke, spilled beer, and underneath it the hot grease of deep-fried food that my arteries are already objecting to.
It’s packed. Wall to wall. The car show crowd fills every booth and every table. Bodies are crammed into the standing room between the bar and the pool tables in the back. The music coming from the speakers is classic rock from two decades ago, and it’s competing with a hundred conversations happening at full volume.
There are beer signs on the walls, Christmas lights strung along the ceiling even though it’s June, and a long mahogany bar top that’s the nicest thing in the building by a long shot. Behind the bar, a woman with silver hair pinned up is pouring drinks like she’s fighting fires.
I find the one empty stool at the far end of the bar and sit down. Through the windows behind the bar, a large deck opens up to the wide beach. The sun is already halfway down and the sky is going orange and gold, the horizon melting into the water.
