you're a ghost in the doorway
I can see through, but I hold tight
I just keep on holding till it hurts
I just want you to know that you're lovely
There is a bar in Trench City. Its name is Ernie's, or Nellies, or Buddy's...one of those one-word names that sounds like its named after somebody. It probably started with an E. The name doesn't matter. What matters is that this was a dive, and it was in Trench City. It was the kind of place where they should have, but didn't, check for weapons, with the kind of clientele that was hot for flashing a weapon but not actually use it. You could call it seedy. The bar's reedeeming quality was its drink specials on thursdays, specifically, two dollar pitchers of anything on tap. This brought in a number of different crowds, and made for a number of interesting nights.
It is not a stretch to say that Emmy's...maybe Amy's...had a mostly male crowd every night. A loud, rowdy, mostly-male crowd. It was for this reason that Evelyn caused quite a stir when she--wait. Lets back up.
Thursday.
No. Back further.
Tuesday.
"I've seen this bike before." The girl that was speaking was Elena, the Russian eye-catcher that specialized in women's clothing at the supermassive Motorcycle Emporium, which sold everything except for motorcycles. Elena was standing in front of the store, looking at a baby black ninja with purple rims. She looked decidedly unfriendly.
"I uh...bought it after an accident," explained Evelyn. "The last owner...passed away after the accident?"
Elena's eyes widened and she raised her hand over her mouth. "Mmm!" she squeeked. Then tears welled up in her eyes, and she rushed forward and hugged Evelyn. "Caaaaarrrrrrl," she moaned. Then, suddenly, she stopped.
"Wait. Why do you have it? Were you sleeping with--"
"No. I just--I was the first one on the scene. I don't know why he gave it to me." The truth was a little more complicated, but it wasn't a lie.
Elena seemed satisfied, but also seemed unable to decide if they were friends or enemies. Nonetheless Elena assisted Evelyn in securing fashionable riding gear, which, to Evelyn, was at least equally important as even knowing how to ride the motorcycle. The weirdness, for both of them, seemed sufficient cause to let the matter rest for a time.
Evelyn was not an easy customer. Yet knowing little about motorcycles, she tried on half of the women's motorcycle gloves, walking over to the jacket section to look at herself in the mirror with each pair. Then she started looking at the price tags, and agonized over the ten cheapest pairs. Elena lost patience and switched from "assisting" to merely "hovering" to finally "helping other customers and checking in."
Evelyn's stint in the boots section was brief; the moment she saw prices she realized that her own, non-motorcycle boots would work just fine. Next, a helmet. She settled on a black helmet. She had tried to find a black helmet with something purple on it, to match Carby's detailing, but none of the purple colors on any of the 300 helmets on display were the right shade. Black would have to do.
Finally, it was the jacket, and possibly pants. Evelyn had entered the store intent on being content with her jeans, but things like that tended to change after an hour of shopping. Evelyn spied a full, bright pink jumpsuit in the corner. She could never wear something so ostentatious. It was so...guardy, in fact, that it kept popping into her vision. Every time she turned around, there was a pink jumpsuit in the corner of her vision. Her eyes darted to it whenever she stopped to think. Evelyn tried on a number of jumpsuits, and attracted Elena back into assist mode when Elena realized just how much her customer might end up spending. After trying on a number of womens jackets, a lot of which didn't quite fit right and then looking at the price tags and putting them back, and generally annoying Elena, Evelyn started in on the mens. After all, the night Biff had lent her his own jacket, it had seemed to fit so right, perfect compared to all of these.
"I know you are not interested in the full suits, but there is a used one you should at least look at. Its been heavily used so its marked down," said Elena.
Evelyn consented and followed the saleswoman. Elena led her straight to the pink jumpsuit.
"That is not really my style."
"Just try it on," Elena insisted.
Evelyn did try it on. It fit. It fit wonderfully. It was thick, and it was--Evelyn didn't know if it was leather or not but--it was something sturdy. It was like being hugged in all directions by something magical and protective. Evelyn stood in front of the mirrors and stared. The image looking back at her was not someone she knew well. The pink jumpsuit accentuated every curve on her body. Her legs were long, and tight. Her hips were sexy and her breasts filled out perfectly. Her auburn hair rested comfortably on the shoulders, and the collar hugged her neck. Goddess wasn't the right word, but she'd been called that many times without looking this good.
Elena walked up behind her. "I think we have a winner."
Evelyn ran her hands along her sides and down to her hips. "Yeah, I think so." She didn't want to take it off. She glanced at the price tag. Community college would have to wait.
Evelyn had to supplement her debit card with most of the cash in her wallet so that it the transaction wouldn't bounce. Elena treated her with the patient respect of someone probably working off of commission. "Thank you! Have a good day, Evelyn."
"Call me Eve," Evelyn smiled. Her connection with this girl was morbid, but it gave her a sense of familiarity. Also, now that her life had turned upside down and forced her to meet lots of new people, she was getting tired of hearing her full name so often. So Eve it was. "I'm so sorry about...Carl."
Eve left on what she hoped was a good note with Elena, and tentative plans for lunch later that week. Eve also departed the store wearing full riding gear. She stuffed her jeans into the backpack she left handing off Carby's right mirror. Carby tried to sneeze in protest of this disgrace, but he didn't have a nose.
Eve next wore her brand new (relatively) gear two days later. She discovered, to her delight, that with baggy cargo pants and a thin, black turtleneck, she could wear the suit under what was basically a barista's uniform. That cut the time required for changing in half, or more, when she arrived for work. It was a bit stuffy, though, and after a day on her feet Eve wasn't sure if it was worth it. She was closing that night, and, being eager to ride, rushed the procedure a bit. She was outside, and already locking the door before she was done disrobing to her jumpsuit.
Fifty feet away, or maybe less...roughly the distance where you can recognize someones face but too far away to initiate eye contact, a computer scientist named Dave was trying to read Wolves of the Calla in what he thought was "the fading light" of twilight but was actually weak light from a poorly placed, amber streetlight which caused him to have to twist the book uncomfortably. Eve caught Dave's eye and he watched her pull a black turtleneck off with one hand while turning a key in the door lock with the other. The entire maneuver lasted about three to five seconds. That might seem like a small amount of time, but there are people gifted (or cursed) with the ability to read a lot from simple movements. Sometimes its walking, or a hand gesture, or a voice inflection, or, rarely, the way a face changes from one expression to another. Dave was one such person, and in those few seconds he saw more of Eve than a hundred happy-hour dates could ever hope to reveal. He continued watching her stuff her clothes into her backpack and start a black motorcycle parked on the street, but by that point he was already in love. Love, sometimes, can be a swift predator. Dave listened to the whine of what was definitely a two-cyclinder, four-stroke motorcycle. He listened to the rise in pitch and then then suddenly dip when she changed gears. She shifted unaggressively, taking her time with 3rd gear especially. Dave thought this made her more interesting, although the truth is that he would have thought that about whatever he heard.
Eve was dying to take her bike on the highways. They intimidated her, but she was ready. Her bag was irritating. She dropped it off at her apartment, which somewhat negated the entire benefit of suffering in the suit all day. That fell out of her mind as soon as she hit the on ramp. The highway was glorious. There were no streetlights forcing her to shift down (still downshifting fully into every gear) and stop, then wait--hoping no one would run her over--then get started again. On the highway, she could just stay in one gear.
She had her route all planned out. Using four major highways, and one road that was not a highway but was devoid of traffic lights in the right places, she could ride in a sort of elliptical, misshapen ring around central city. It was exciting. For a motorcycle, she wasn't going terribly fast but lights and overpasses were whizzing by overhead. The wine of Carby's engine was constant. Turns were wonderful. Eve reached a point more than halfway around her circuit. The emotional turmoil of recent events in her life had finally faded into the background. The stress was flowing out of her arms, down through the frame to the tires and left to wallow in the road behind her.
Carby certainly appreciated when she finally loosened up.
Eve briefly distracted herself by trying to get a quick gaze or two at the sky. Thats when the boys showed up. There was traffic on the road, but it was very light and most of the few cars in the middle lane noticed the bright pink jumpsuit on a bike in their rearview mirror and pulled over. It could be said that this city was one of the few in the world where most people obeyed "keep right, pass left." That was a possible reason why a certain character lingered.
The boys came as a trio. They each had sportbikes larger than hears. One had a blue one, a red one, and the third had a red one which clashed with his green jacket. The rode next to and around her. One nearly cut her off coming in from the right. Its a thing some bikers do. Eve may have figured that or not. She didn't really like it. She was, infact, intimidated. It would be one of the last times she was so.
The boy bikers sprinted ahead a bit and pulled over, perhaps expecting her to as well. Instead, she gunned the throttle, far exceeding any speed she was comfortable with. There was an exit or two shortly before the bridge. She took one of them, hoping the other riders wouldn't see. She veered onto the offramp two quickly, nearly losing, and skidded to a stop at the end, nearly dropping her bike. It took putting both feet out and sliding for a bit to prevent the fall. It was scary, and disheartening in that it was too similar to her first attempts at riding, but Eve did feel a sparse amount of gravel under her boots, and she would remember that, to her benefit.
Eve spied a bar. She parked behind it to stay out of sight, but she had to walk back around to the front and let me remind you that jumpsuit stood out. Eve could hear sounds of motorcycle engines and prayed they were on the bridge. Her hopes were dashed when the same three bikes pulled up to the front and parked neatly, almost in unison, in a somewhat practiced fashion, just as she reached the door.
Thus is the context that explains how it was that Eve entered Maddie's. Or Melissa's...or McJillans.... Her stride was quick, and her distracted, tight gaze exuded an incredible confidence to those that didn't know better. Every eye in the bar was on for a second, and the ones belonging to the men lingered for a few more. She entered with her helmet still on, having had no time to remove it, and therefore looking like a terrible but beautiful, pink road harpy she removed her helmet as she walked, letting it swing down casually at her side while she tossed her long hair free, and didn't think twice about setting right up on the bar.
One person in particular took extra notice of her, and she had recognized him the instant she had entered. It was that guy Biff that she had met the day Carl had died--the day that this all started. He was openly staring at her, and his expression was unlike anyone elses. It was a look of shock, and his face seemed white. Eve had deliberately ignored him, intending to afford him eye contact as soon as she sat down. Best case scenario, he would move to her and offer to buy her a drink or at least say hi, and hopefully the walking hardons would be intimidated and not talk to her. Eve sat and turned her head in a practiced manner to meet Biff's gaze. Biff was not there. His seat was empty. A can of mountain dew was left on the bar, looking quite out of place.
The bartender nodded in her direction.
She ordered: "Whiskey and coke--" Are you crazy? You're out on a damn motorcycle, girl. "--wait, no just a coke."
The bartender had no beef with a virgin whisky cola and served her glass up promptly. "One dollar." Eve gave him two. Then she watched the motorcycle boys saunter in. Damn cock rockers, they probably think this is exciting.
They settled around the corner of the bar. It was a little too early to leave, especially since they could follow her out. Eve sipped her soda like it had whiskey in it and waited for their beers to show up. They might still follow her, even then. Two of them looked right at her. Eve gulped the rest of her coke at turned, desperate for the ladies room that she didn't need to use. She found it and made it. Unlike every movie she could remember, there were no windows. Also, the ceiling was not a drop ceiling. Also, she left her helmet at the bar. Even though she had done so already, the thought of riding without her helmet was...well, unthinkable. It would be like driving in bare feet, but worse.
Eve touched up her hair...and her face. She tried to drag it out but felt awkward, as there was only one sink and a tiny mirror and not really much of a need. She was tempted to peek out through the door. That won't do, sugar. Eve hid in a stall instead. Everything inside was disgusting, and she had to follow her routine for de-grossing a toilet and was about to undertake the arderous process of removing the riding suit when she remember she didn't have to go, and instead just perched her leather ass on the strips of toilet paper she laid out. She waited a while. It seemed like an age. Then she waited a bit longer. She started tapping her feet with impatient. How long had it been? How long would she have to wait. Would they be there all night? Perhaps, but only if she had the misfortune of landing where they were planning to be. The most likely scenrio was they would have at least one drink, and wait for her to come out of the bathroom. If any of them were creepy or needy, they'd be loitering near her seat when she came back. Eve finally couldn't stand it and looked at her watch. Four minutes had gone by.
Eve buried her face in her hands and wanted to scream. She didn't know quite why or how, or just how irrational she was being, but something was not right. She had not, after alienating what remained of her family and friends, finally escaped a useless, retarded asshole to let herself get trapped again, cowering like a little girl in a disgusting dive bar toilet. As much as she told herself this, she couldn't made herself leave. She was not done up nor mentally ready for a social night out. She had worn no makeup that day, because she was afraid it would rub off on the inside of the helmet, and her hair felt greasy and she smelled like coffee. This was just supposed to be a night of exploration, of experimentation, actually. She was still new to this motorcycle thing and while it thrilled her, she felt a sense of unease around...them. Motorcycle people. Except Biff.
Biff, by the way, was outside, with his ass in the gravel and his back to the wall, smoking two cigarettes. It was the third time in his life that he smoked; normally the pack of cigs in his jacket was just for chicks. So was (usually) the initialed lighter that made a blue flame. Tonight was an except of sorts because Biff had seen a ghost, a ghost in the doorway of that bar, and such event call for a cig or two whether you're a smoker or not. It had looked just like her. It had been her. Biff wondered if his heart even stopped. He wiggled his left arm, testing for numbness...felt nothing but steel nerves. His stomach was jello though. The helmet was black, he told himself. Then he visualized the pink rider taking off her helmet, and it was just that Evelyn chick with Carl's 250. Still, Biff had been hoping, for some uncharacterically completely illogical reason, that there's be a pink Aprilla somewhere on the premesis. There wasn't. Biff smoked.
Back to Eve. Eve became aware of someone else in the bathroom. She could see shoes on the floor. The bathroom had two stalls, and the other one was empty. The shoes were just standing there, though, and they weren't at the sink. The shoes walked to Eve's door and suddenly a fist was pounding against it.
"How long you gonna take?" The voice was angry.
"Use the other one," said Eve, annoyed.
"I ain't going in there. Its all gross and shit."
"This one isn't any better."
"Fuck you hurry up. What are you getting yourself off in there you stuck up bitch?" The shoes moved on their toes and Even saw two hand up top and then hair--the girl was trying to peek in.
Eve didn't know what came over her, but she braced herself, raised her right boot, and kicked the door, hard. "Back off, sugar." There was an new edge in her voice. "If you creep on me one more time you'll wish you hadn't."
The person on the other door didn't seem all that impressed. She did, though back off and used the next stall. She had some choice words for Eve but Eve ignored her. Eve waited until long after the girl at left and then checked her watch. Almost half an hour. Maybe that was enough time, maybe not. She wasn't going to wait any longer.
Eve let out an enormous sigh when looked around the room and did not see the biker boys. There were a lot of people there, and maybe she missed them, but she had a feeling they wouldn't bother her on her way out. She was right. Someone else did.
Eve, to her relief, found that her helmet was still on the bar where she left it. Also, the bartender was serving up beer with his back to her so he hopefully wouldn't wonder why she sprinted off to the bathroom all of a sudden. She retrieved her helmet gently, smiling at the man to leaned out of her way. Then she passed a beefy drunk homeboy with a stained sports jersey slung his arm around her. His acrid, alcoholic mouth exhaust choked up her nostrils. Homeboy was saying something, really, but he was just slurring a bit too much. Eve could have pieced together the greeting had she been listening, but for a second she was in waitress mode, sliding away and pushing his arm off, looking to the bar in case she needed it. Then she remembered this wasn't her bar. Also, homeboy was hanging on pretty tight. She managed to disentangle herself from his grasp by the time she got to the door, but he and his two bros followed her out. And around to the back. Eve was starting to wish the boys with bikes had stuck around; she was sure they would have stuck up for one of their own.
Two out of three of this trio were throwing a lot of words at her, with the third trailing along with a stupid grin on his face. The one who touched her was acting all offended, and still trying to tug at her shirt, only he didn't quite realize she wasn't actually wearing a shirt but instead an untuggable, tight motorcycle suit. The other was more animated, super friendly, more words. Eve couldn't. Handle talking to either. She was done. She wished she hadn't even come out that night. All she wanted to do was get on her bike and get the hell home.
Her drunk companions, however, would not let her go without a more stern refusal. That refusal came when one of them touched her bike. He even looked about to swing his leg over when Eve raged. A grope or two in a club, and horny guys grabbing her ass, that was the cost of being out and socializing. Touching her bike, that was a violation. Eve switched the helmet to her left hand and swing with her hips. The helmet connected somewhere around his chest or neck, and he fell. One leg dragged along the bike but fortunately did not tip it over.
"What the fuck? What the fuck is your problem you stupid cunt?" Another one on her left. She swung again, into his stomach. He double over. She hit him in the chest, and then one more time in the groin. She toppled over. The third grabbed her from behind, wrapping his arms around hers. Eve lots her wits and panicked, expecting rape. She struggled ineffectively but furiously. Her captor had maybe twenty pounds on her, but he also had a lot to drink and fell backwards and a little sideways. Eve continued struggled, now taken by the adrenaline. She got him in the neck twice with her elbow and rolled off.
One of them...the second one she hit was standing in front of her with her helmet. Up to an including this point she heard the word "bitch" quite a number of times. Eve stood up, slowly, and quite scared of the incoming blow. Her elbows were high and twitching to cover her face when he swung, but she didn't flinch--not yet. He did raise the helmet but then hesistated. She thought he was hesistant, perhaps, to hit a girl, drunk as he was. Then he back up a step. At the last second she saw fear in his eyes. Then he turned and threw the helmet up and onto the roof of the bar. In a way, that was a wise move; had he struck Eve just then, his neck would have been broken shortly afterwards.
"How you like it now, you stuck up bitch..." They stared at each other, listening to the helmet roll, then come to a stop, still on the roof. "...you stupid cunt."
"You called me that one already." Slid her right foot out a little and balled her fists. She had no idea how to fight, but if this sucker wanted a fight she'd make him regret it. He ran. She was about to cry.
Eve heard a boot crunch behind her and jumped around, expecting an incoming fist. Instead she saw Biff standing there sizing her up. He walked toward her, and She didn't know what to do. Biff held out a pair of sunglasses, only lightly tinted. The kind that put fashion over function.
"These are not safety glasses," he lectured like a professor, "but they will keep the wind out of your face, enough for you to get home." Biff glared at her until she took them. Then, almost mocking her, "don't worry, I don't need them back. I keep them around for girls that want a ride."
They exhanged some more words, but those words were not important.
One look from Biff disencouraged any further engagement from the drunk assholes, and they left. One was crawling, and clutching his throat, making gasping noises.
"You need to move, Evelyn," Biff said. "I think that one needs an ambulance, and its best if you don't stick around to answer unecessary questions."
"Thanks."
Biff shrugged. "It's your handiwork."
Eve cringed at the thought, but swung her leg over Carby's seat and got him started. "And call me Eve." Then she pulled out to the road.
Eve was scared, and also probably in shock, but Biff's advice was cutting through all that and she was following it for some reason.
Biff listened to her go. He listened to the fine little whine of that 250 and watched her disappear into the on ramp. He wanted--needed to go back inside. He had left a nearly full can of mountain dew. Also, he wanted to watch those turds stumble in, call 911 and try to explain what happened while the barkeep probably told them to keep their bloody dirtstained asses off the seats. However, there were thirty, maybe forty people inside, and when the night was over every one of them would know that three drunk men had followed the pink girl outside, and that those three drunk men had stumbled back in with their asses whooped. It was worthy of poety. That story was going to make the rounds, it was, and Biff didn't want to walk in also and confuse any of the details by his presence.
He wanted them to remember this pink rider.
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