black people. But Passion frequented the place long before it was a biker bar. She came with the HOT PIE , where she sets up shop in room number 12. And it’s that time of year when the air gets too cold and the hookers stroll in for a few minutes of warmth. They hide in the corners of the bar, though not for long after the men have a few rounds. They shiver in their fishnets and hover over pots of French onion soup and cups of coffee.
Passion is good people. She’s ripe at fifty, the mother hen to the other runaways and coke-addicted pros. A gold tooth at the front of her smile always catches my attention from the corner of my eye.Her short curly hair and long blue nails emerge from a long and old white faux-fur coat. And even above the loud music, and I mean decibels hardly within the human threshold of volume, I swear I can hear her lick and smack that gold tooth with her tongue. She always smiles. She always looks like she has a secret you’re dying to know. She’s great company, smart and up-to-date on all the politics and science and literature and such, and so I love having her around, someone in Painter I can have an intelligent conversation with. Yes, the only sensible person in the state of Oregon is a whore. Life’s funny like that.
I have a minute to rest. I lean near Passion from my side of the bar. She stares into a newspaper and uses a plastic spoon to stir her bowl. She smells like spearmint gum, latex, and onion soup. There’s a chewed-up wad of gum on the tip of her nail as she eats.
“Obama this, Obama that.” She folds the newspaper away. She must be the only black person in America who hates Obama. For some reason this makes me like her more, because she’s not a conformist. I wipe down the same patch of bar over and over again as we discuss politics.
“Sure, put all the gun crimes in the headlines to back a gun ban. But what good will it do? The guns aren’t the problem.” She blows on her soup from silver lipstick and raises her voice to get a rise. “It’s these crazy-ass cracker white boys who are allowed to have them.” Anyone else might take offense to such a statement. I know she means nothing prejudicial about it.
“I tell you what,” she says as a fat biker named Gunsmoke with a blond receding hairline slams his glass on the bar.
“That nigger Obama ain’t taking my rights from me.”
“Relax, shugga, I didn’t vote for him neither.” She raises her glass to Gunsmoke, but he looks away. Passion and I share a smile. I go to the blond and take his mug to the draft taps. Foam falls from the Pabst Blue Ribbon faucet.
“Passion, would you watch the register?” Passion’s practically management here. “Gotta go switch cans in the basement.”
“You got it, honey.”
I slip my way through the crowd with a few iron elbows to the door beside the restrooms where it says “Employees Only.” The hallway smells like urine after a few courses of antibiotics and crack, the smell of sweet hay. Not that I’ve ever tried crack, but let’s not be naive.
I hold my breath. Beyond the door, a hallway in darkness. Overhead are caged lamps that flicker, dim graves to fruit flies that failed to follow the sweet fumes of liquor into the bar. The sound of the music from inside is muffled behind the walls. I walk slowly. I hate hallways, I’ve always hated hallways, especially dark ones. I focus on these lamps, and I’m reminded of an interrogation room back in New York. The hall expands. The space grows darker. The music becomes distant. And suddenly I’m back in that interrogation room twenty years ago. Before I was Freedom Oliver. Before I met the whippersnappers. Before I went crazy. Back when my name was Nessa Delaney.
—
“Nessa, be smart,” said one officer. He and his partner circled around me like buzzards. Their eyebrows formed
V
’s, faces a shade of ruby with frustration. With each hour that passed, their shirt cuffs moved an inch higher on their arms. “Now, I
Passion is good people. She’s ripe at fifty, the mother hen to the other runaways and coke-addicted pros. A gold tooth at the front of her smile always catches my attention from the corner of my eye.Her short curly hair and long blue nails emerge from a long and old white faux-fur coat. And even above the loud music, and I mean decibels hardly within the human threshold of volume, I swear I can hear her lick and smack that gold tooth with her tongue. She always smiles. She always looks like she has a secret you’re dying to know. She’s great company, smart and up-to-date on all the politics and science and literature and such, and so I love having her around, someone in Painter I can have an intelligent conversation with. Yes, the only sensible person in the state of Oregon is a whore. Life’s funny like that.
I have a minute to rest. I lean near Passion from my side of the bar. She stares into a newspaper and uses a plastic spoon to stir her bowl. She smells like spearmint gum, latex, and onion soup. There’s a chewed-up wad of gum on the tip of her nail as she eats.
“Obama this, Obama that.” She folds the newspaper away. She must be the only black person in America who hates Obama. For some reason this makes me like her more, because she’s not a conformist. I wipe down the same patch of bar over and over again as we discuss politics.
“Sure, put all the gun crimes in the headlines to back a gun ban. But what good will it do? The guns aren’t the problem.” She blows on her soup from silver lipstick and raises her voice to get a rise. “It’s these crazy-ass cracker white boys who are allowed to have them.” Anyone else might take offense to such a statement. I know she means nothing prejudicial about it.
“I tell you what,” she says as a fat biker named Gunsmoke with a blond receding hairline slams his glass on the bar.
“That nigger Obama ain’t taking my rights from me.”
“Relax, shugga, I didn’t vote for him neither.” She raises her glass to Gunsmoke, but he looks away. Passion and I share a smile. I go to the blond and take his mug to the draft taps. Foam falls from the Pabst Blue Ribbon faucet.
“Passion, would you watch the register?” Passion’s practically management here. “Gotta go switch cans in the basement.”
“You got it, honey.”
I slip my way through the crowd with a few iron elbows to the door beside the restrooms where it says “Employees Only.” The hallway smells like urine after a few courses of antibiotics and crack, the smell of sweet hay. Not that I’ve ever tried crack, but let’s not be naive.
I hold my breath. Beyond the door, a hallway in darkness. Overhead are caged lamps that flicker, dim graves to fruit flies that failed to follow the sweet fumes of liquor into the bar. The sound of the music from inside is muffled behind the walls. I walk slowly. I hate hallways, I’ve always hated hallways, especially dark ones. I focus on these lamps, and I’m reminded of an interrogation room back in New York. The hall expands. The space grows darker. The music becomes distant. And suddenly I’m back in that interrogation room twenty years ago. Before I was Freedom Oliver. Before I met the whippersnappers. Before I went crazy. Back when my name was Nessa Delaney.
—
“Nessa, be smart,” said one officer. He and his partner circled around me like buzzards. Their eyebrows formed
V
’s, faces a shade of ruby with frustration. With each hour that passed, their shirt cuffs moved an inch higher on their arms. “Now, I
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