Twillbear (Part 3)

Maintaining a Harley-Davidson motorcycle, no matter the year of manufacture or model required time, patience and a disproportionately large allotment of one’s budget. If the engine wasn’t cutting out, the gas tank was leaking around the rear mount studs, if the ignition primer wasn’t gummed up, the carburetor needed a new jet kit. Even something as simple as the air cleaner had to constantly be checked, an engine running without an air cleaner is a bit like drinking water and then eating the glass— it can be done but isn't a great idea. Plus, God help you if the modified direct drive slipped, because you’d be spending copious amounts of time in the garage or hitchhiking to a Harley-Davidson distributor. The prospects of actually arriving intact at one’s desired destination on a sunny day were questionable enough, much less factor in rainy or snowy weather. Certainly the Harley life wasn’t for everybody, a reality that Twillbear relished and savored.

But, despite it all, Twillbear Hopkins would sooner drive a wheelchair than any vehicle with four wheels. Truly, Twillbear’s contempt for ‘cages with wheels’ offered him legendary status in his town. Few occasions found the tall, broad-shouldered man without his black leather motorcycle jacket. If he opened the top buttons of his jacket, a brillo pad of gray chest hair pushed its way to freedom, grateful for the chance to soak up some much-needed oxygen. It matched the hair on his head, at least the part that could be seen sticking out from under the blue bandana that covered his dome.

Years broadcast across Twillbear’s face in a network of deep furrows that gouged a path through his skin from forehead to the point of his chin, offering refuge to an accumulation of dirt and hubris. All of his teeth showed whenever he grinned and a tattooed pair of permanent red lipstick imprints emblazoned an area of his neck just below his left ear— his unspoken tribute to womanhood apparently, not that he needed any help with the ladies. His hardcore, rugged, ‘bad boy’ good looks attracted many women looking for a walk on the wild side. Flattered as he was by the prospects of attention, normally Twillbear kept his own company. Years spent on the road convinced him that traveling light was both virtuous and efficient. Besides, both his allegiance and his paycheck belonged to ‘Bessie’, his 1968 Harley-Davidson Panhead motorcycle. Sure, he could get laid if he wanted to, but it didn’t require her to spend more than a night or two at his place, and it certainly didn’t involve any phone calls the next day— a man cannot serve two masters.

In all his interactions with ‘straight’ society, Twillbear remained aloof and mysterious, his ever-present black wrap-around shades normally hid his eyes, even while he worked as a loader at the dry ice plant, but when questioned, an invisible laser burrowed directly into the victim's soul, holding him (or her) spellbound until Twillbear considered the suffering sufficient to warrant a response. One part contempt and two parts performance art, any gesture of recognition or speech on Twillbear’s part was apt to impress the interrogator. Half sage and half bullshit artist, his words were pure magic. If Twillbear Hopkins liked you, he took care of you, although he wouldn’t have uttered any such words aloud under penalty of death. After all, he had a reputation to protect.

***

“Jeezuz H. Chee-rist, Tish, what does a man have to do to get a decent drink in this joint? For three bucks a shot, you’d think that you could taste the whiskey, at least!” Charles H. (Fubu) Painter slammed his glass tumbler down on the bar, causing ice to squirt out the top. “Fill ‘er up again, but pleeeezzz make it a good one.” Reaching into the front pocket of his jeans, Fubu frowned and yanked another fiver from the wad he kept there, slapping it on the bar hard enough for everyone to hear the pop.

Arms folded casually across her chest, Tish Matthews stared at her adversary without moving. “I’ll give you double that to hike your ass out of here right now and promise not to come back tonight.”

“Oh, now, Tish… simmer down, you know I was ju—“

Tish slammed a five-dollar bill on top of his and pointed at the door. “Git…”

Fubu Painter paused and grinned at the faces staring up from their seats at the bar. It wasn’t crowded, and none of his buddies were present, so Fubu merely picked the money up and folded it onto his wad. As it disappeared back into his pocket, Fubu rose from his stool and pointed his finger at the bartender. “One of these days, Tish, you might wish you hadn’t done this.”

“Yea…” Tish agreed, “You could be right. I also might have monkeys fly out my ass, but I think I’d have to say that the chances of either are remote, at best.” Grabbing a bar rag, Tish began to wipe down the counter, corralling the spilled ice before scooping it into her hand and carrying it to the small sink located underneath the far end of the bar, up against the back wall.

Seated alone on the last stool, with his back against the wall, sat Twillbear Hopkins. A toothpick moved in his mouth as he intently watched Tish rinse the bar rag and fold it onto the drink shelf running along the back edge of the bar. “Tough night?” he offered, making small talk to break the ice and, hopefully, to diffuse her anger.

Still pissed, Tish shot him a spare me glance and spat out, “Not you, too, Twill, I can’t take it tonight. My nerves are shot.”

Twillbear said nothing, instead opting to hold his left hand up, palm towards her, indicating his understanding. Obviously, he thought to himself, my reputation precedes me. Silently, for the next thirty minutes he watched her go about her duties, snapping at one customer, scowling at another, ignoring several others. All the while, however, she continued to take orders, clean tables, dump ashtrays and supplement the owner’s income by putting dollars from her tip jar into the jukebox. Normally, she might have either shamed the patrons into doing it or challenged them to a game of dice from the shaker cup, but tonight, she was content to stick the damn money in all by her lonesome. That way, at least, she could listen to what she wanted to hear instead of the un-Godly fusion between rock and country that passed for music these days.

A quick trip to the ladies’ room and Tish once again assumed her normally cute and cuddly demeanor, stopping at one table to take a look at Jennie Conroy’s new engagement ring and rub Carl Leonard’s shoulders briefly before she returned to her customary spot behind the bar, the tall chair up against the wall; a vantage point that allowed her to watch everything taking place but kept her out of the fray.

“Need another one, Twill? I’m sorry about my comments, sometimes I can’t seem to keep my trap shut.” Tish asked politely, her attitude diametrically opposed to that of a few minutes earlier.

“Jesus, Tish, do they have an attitude machine in that bathroom? Sling a couple of quarters in the slot and out pops a new outlook on life? If so, please give me the number of your vendor… I want one installed in my own damn house!”

Tish smiled at him and playfully threw a bar rag at Twillbear. “No, there’s no machine in there, and even if there were, you’d find a way to hook it up wrong.” Then, her expression hardened and the smile disappeared as she watched a dark, swarthy, well-dressed man sit down at the far end of the bar. Saying nothing to Twillbear, she rose from her seat and pushed several buttons on the cash register. Checking the register tape quickly, she began picking bills out from underneath the till drawer and putting them into a bank bag that she placed somewhere under the counter. She then grabbed a coaster from the caddy at her set-up station. After exchanging a few words with the man, Tish filled a tall tumbler with ice and poured in several fingers of Hennessey before following it with a spritz of soda from the mixer gun. Tish ducked under the bar, grabbed her purse and tucked it under her arm before placing the drink in front of the man. Excusing herself, she walked back into the ladies’ room.

Twill noticed that the man sat still as a stump, elbows on the bar and hands folded as if in prayer, staring at the mirror behind the bar and refusing to make eye contact with anyone else in the establishment. Obviously, he was doing business.

After a couple of minutes, Tish emerged from the bathroom and walked back behind the bar, depositing her purse in its original position under the counter. Then she grabbed a menu and sneakily inserted a small envelope inside before placing it in front of her customer. No words were spoken and Tish walked out from behind the bar to a large table where a few friends sat chatting and laughing. In seconds, she stood over them making conversation and picking up empty bottles and glasses as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Just as suddenly, the man opened the menu and retrieved the contents, which he quickly secreted into a jacket pocket. Noticing that Twillbear watched him, the man stood up and stared at Twillbear ominously before adjusting his jacket sleeves. Then he simply walked out.

Damn… this is not good. Twillbear had seen this many times in numerous locales, so it didn’t surprise him. However, it did raise the ante and heighten his immediacy of action. But he couldn’t walk right up to her and drop a bomb on her—he needed to find a way to get her attention, and the sooner the better.

Twillbear stood up and motioned for Tish to come over.

“Yes, dear… what can I get you?” Perky-Tish had come back, her smile both welcoming and suggestive.

Twillbear leaned forward over the bar and whispered, “I saw what you just did. We need to talk about it… now.”

Still smiling, Tish whispered back, “Sometimes it’s best if folks just mind their own damn business.”

Taking his shades off, Twillbear stared at her, his eyes blazing. “Unless you have the desire to spend more than a few years in a Federal prison, I suggest that we go somewhere and talk. A tape of the last five minutes would make a pretty convincing case in court.”

“Are you a cop?”

“Come talk to me and I’ll explain it all to you. I don’t want to embarrass you on the job.”

“My shift doesn’t end for another three hours.”

Twillbear put his glasses back on. “Then I suggest you call someone.”

***