Sample from Desert Run - Available NOW

Inside, the place was one long room with a bar built into the middle and a pool table in the back. The décor was supposed to suggest the old west; the walls were covered in weather distressed wood, as though they’d gone out into the desert, found an old abandoned building, torn it down and tacked it up on the walls in the bar, which come to think of it, was exactly what they’d done. In one corner an old saddle was hung on the wall. There were rodeo posters and more than a few Marlboro ads, but only the ones with cowboys.

The bartender had an impressive handlebar moustache. He wasn’t wearing a shirt and had the kind of muscles that said ‘don’t cross me, I’ll beat the shit out of you.’ I politely asked for a Miller and he gave me a longneck, without asking if I wanted a glass. I looked around. No one had been offered a glass. I took a long gulp of beer. I told myself that it was thirst that made me drink down half the bottle. Warmth spread through my chest, but more than warmth, relief. I’d missing drinking. Missed it more than I’d let myself realize. It was like sitting down with an old friend about whom I had fond memories, and yet a friend I knew would turn on me if I let him. I finished the beer and nodded at the bartender for another.

This one I let sit in front of me. I knew if I drank at that speed I’d be out of money in a little more than an hour. My choices were to slow down or leave the bar completely. I slowed down. To distract myself from the beer sitting in front of me, a sweat breaking out on the brown bottle, I looked around the bar. There were about fifteen other patrons, all men, a couple sitting together talking softly, most by themselves. Women didn’t like to go to bars by themselves, still in a place like this someone usually brought a girlfriend or a wife. Sometimes girls came in pairs. Safety in numbers. Then I realized my mistake; I was in a fag bar.

Back when I was in the army, a couple of my buddies dragged me into a queer bar in San Diego as a joke. Built it up as a place where we were sure to score, something we wanted to do before we shipped out. It took about ten minutes before I got the joke. I made a big stink, because when you’re with your buddies that’s what you do, then we got out of there. It didn’t seem a good idea to make a big stink in this place. Didn’t look like too many of these guys would put up with it.

People who’ve never been in a queer bar imagine them to be dangerous places. I have to admit I was one of those people. Looking around, I realized that other than the fact it was all guys, there wasn’t a lot to tip you off. There weren’t any queens running around in make-up and feather boas, though it was a bright sunny afternoon, maybe they came in after dark. The crowd didn’t look like they were planning to band together and snatch some poor normal kid off the street and butt-rape him on the pool table. It was a pretty average kind of place. Except it wasn’t. When I looked closer, I could see that the body language was different. It was like every guy in the room was a hungry lion looking to pounce. Only there weren’t any gazelles. These lions pounced on each other. Maybe it was a more dangerous place than it seemed.

Getting up from the bar, I walked over to the pool table. I put a dime on the side and then scratched my name onto a small blackboard stuck on the wall. I’d played pool a lot while I was in the service. I wasn’t great, but maybe I was better than these guys. Maybe I could even get a couple side bets going. It was a risk, but then what about my life wasn’t?

I went back to the bar and waited with my beer. I tried to sip slowly, but that didn’t work so well. I was nearly finished. A kid at the end of the bar got up and put a dime on the pool table behind mine. He had a head of black curls floating around his ears and looked like he’d been drawn my Michelangelo – if Michelangelo had ever drawn a boy in gym shorts, a T-shirt two sizes too small, striped socks, and running shoes. He couldn’t have been much more than twenty, twenty-one. His face was round and his nose plopped in the middle of it like a dab of clay on a statue. His eyes were a deep sea blue. He was tall, a good four inches taller than me, at least. Which didn’t mean I couldn’t take him in a fight if I had to.

It was my turn to play and I was matched against an older guy in his thirties named Denny. Denny wore a wife-beater and a pair of Levis. He had on big black motorcycle boots. But I didn’t remember seeing any bikes out front. I introduced myself and suggested the loser buy the winner a beer. I figured I’d work it up to money later, if I turned out to be a shark. If I didn’t, at least all I’d lost was the cost of a beer. Denny accepted the challenge and ten minutes later he was at the bar buying me a beer.

The kid with the curls came over to take his turn. “I’m Harlan,” he told me. “What’s your name, man?”