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Oakley
Ipay no attention to the speedometer as I travel down a single-lane road toward Smoke, Steel, & Whiskey, holding the steering wheel loosely with one hand and dangling the other out the window, riding the air waves with my hand. When you rent a screaming red Mustang convertible, you’d compelled to enjoy it to the fullest.
There’s nobody else out here. The lawyer in charge of managing Angus’s estate, a stout tan woman with a thick southern drawl, didn’t care to join me. She just handed off the keys, made me sign a few papers, and told me the bar was mine as she chewed loudly on a stick of Juicy Fruit gum.
Goodbye, and good luck.
The only thing I learned from her was that Angus died in a motorcycle accident just a mile down the road from his bar. Apparently, he was drunk.
Still, I wonder how a person could die on a road like this. There’s nobody else here, and not a single sign to run into. You’d have to be trying to kill yourself to get into an accident out here, but I suppose that’s irrelevant. Angus is gone, and I’ve inherited his bar.
I’m not quite sure what to do with it. I wasn’t prepared to come out here in the first place, having only packed a few things in a bag and told my mom I’d be back in a couple of days. I know it’ll take longer than that to sell the bar. I just didn’t want her to know that I have gotten something from her ex-husband. She’d be livid, and I’d never hear the end of her toxic criticisms of him.
Sometimes I wonder if she secretly resents me because I’m his daughter. Sure, I also belong to her, but just the thought of Angus seems to drive her into a bitter fury.
Murderer, abuser, drunkard. I’ve heard those words enough times already. I’m not interested in hearing them again.
I swerve the car as a few motorcycles growl past me in the opposite lane. I was so deep in thought that I was barely looking at the pale grey road ahead, oblivious to the fact that anyone else existed out here.
I slow down when I realize I’m traveling at over a hundred miles per hour. That probably constitutes reckless driving, and the last thing I want to be doing is spending the night in jail in the middle of nowhere. I can’t even get a phone signal out here.
When I learned that Angus had a bar near Las Vegas, I imagined it just outside the strip, flooding with colorful lights and a diverse collection of patrons from all over the country. Instead, I was instructed by the lawyer to drive down this road in one direction for three hours and warned not to stop at any gas stations until I’m back in Vegas. Apparently, they’re run by biker gangs.
I wonder if Angus was part of one.
The sun is getting low now, but the heat hasn’t let up yet. I roll up the top of my convertible, turning up the A/C as I search the horizon for some sign that I’m close to the bar. I passed a gas station a few miles back, but other than that, I haven’t seen so much as a road sign for half an hour.
Despite keeping a lookout, I almost pass the bar when I finally come up to it. I slow down aggressively, pushing my body into the steering wheel as I pump the brakes so that I don’t miss the turn into the parking lot.
I come to a stop in the middle of it, not bothering to park within the faintly marked separators before turning off the car and fishing around in the glovebox for the keys to the front door of the bar. I own the place now, after all. I can do whatever I want out here.
It feels weird going from eating ramen noodles in a small college dorm room, to living with my nagging mother, to owning a business in under six months. I could’ve never predicted that something like this would fall into my lap, especially not that it would come from my father.
It seems more like a freak accident in the universe, a misplacement of resources that will soon be corrected by some sort of cosmic karma. Maybe the bar will burn to the ground before I can get the key into the door.
But there’s no hint of smoke, nor any clouds that God might be riding in on to strike me down with a bolt of lightning as I walk up to the front entrance of Smoke, Steel, & Whiskey.
The bar is mine, which is exciting in and of itself, but what makes my heart beat the fastest is the prospect of learning more about my father. I’m about to get my first glimpse into how he lived.
I notice the glass on the front door is broken, but otherwise, the place appears to be undisturbed since it closed down following the accident. The red CLOSED sign is still hanging from the door, and I can still smell the thin scent of alcohol as I open the door and step inside.
From the outside, I must admit that Smoke, Steel, & Whiskey is nothing special. The building is covered in dirt, caked on from years of sandstorms and the very occasional rain. Most of the windows are so dirty that it’s impossible to see inside, and the tin roof looks like it hasn’t been cleaned or replaced since this place was built.
But, despite its outward appearance, Smoke, Steel, & Whiskey welcomes me in with a rich, eclectic, lived-in aesthetic, and I immediately feel as though I’ve stepped into a significant gathering place. I was doubtful that I’d get much for selling the place, but now, I think I might have stumbled upon something quite valuable.
My eyes sweep over the bar first, taking delight at the wide selection of drinks that remain on the towering shelves behind it. I imagine you could ask for anything here, and you’d get it without so much as a questioning raise of an eyebrow.
I instantly feel as though my mom never gave Angus enough credit. Surely, this can’t be the business of such a troubled individual. There had to be something in his soul that made him stand out from other men, though I do entertain the thought that he could’ve developed that after his prison sentence. My mom would not have known his accomplishments to be able to tell me about them.
I run my hand over the edge of a pool table as I meander deeper into the building, the deep grooves in the wood telling me stories of bearded bikers knocking ivory balls together with drunken vigor. I can still smell the splash of beer on the green velvet, and I can practically hear the muffled growl of motorcycle engines outside.
For several minutes, I’m lost in the memories this place contains, and I wish the walls could speak to give me further insight into what it was like when it was open and running at full capacity.
I want to know everything.
But eventually, I remember why I came here, and I make my way back through the sea of tables, chairs, and couches to a doorway beside the bar. I wasn’t told much about the layout, but I was informed that Angus basically lived here in one of the back rooms. All his belongings would be found there.
As I move down the hallway, I notice that a door in the hallway is open, and I can smell a thick, sour, bitter smell wafting out from the room.
