The Interview by Eric Weule

for miles in front of
us.
    “So how was your day? Better than yesterday?”
    “Well, I didn’t get accosted by a cop, so that was a good
thing. I saved a cat. That was OK.”
    “Saved a cat? Do tell.”
    I did. She laughed. We left the city of Orange behind us. We crossed
over the 71, then Santiago Canyon stretched out before us. I pressed
the accelerator down.
    “Do you like being a mailman?”
    “Used to. Not so much anymore.”
    “Why?”
    “Boring. What’s your accent? French?”
    “I was born in Ivory Coast.”
    “Not sure if that answers my question.”
    “French is the national language. So yes, my accent is French.”
    “Didn’t know. How’d you end up in America?”
    “I was sold into slavery by my parents so they could feed my
twelve brothers and sisters.”
    “Really?”
    She smiled. Shook her head. “No. Not really.”
    “You’re very black.”
    She laughed. Hard. “Yes. I am.”
    I stopped talking, focused on driving, and ten minutes later I
stopped at Cook’s Corner. I pulled into a parking lot filled
with twenty motorcycles, most of which were Harleys, and two pickups
and a BMW 3-series. “I need a cigarette.”
    I hopped out, lit a cigarette and wandered over to a picnic table.
The evening air felt good after the climate-controlled atmosphere of
the Porsche. I took a deep breath of slightly polluted Trabuco Canyon
air. Too clean. I took a hit off my cigarette. Ahhhh. Better. Alex
sat down beside me and said, “So this is Cook’s Corner.”
    “You’ve never been here? It’s a historical
landmark, Alex. What the hell?”
    “It’s a biker bar, Kelly. Give me a break.”
    “It’s not a biker bar. It’s the biker
bar.” I looked around. Couple loose groups of guys stood
around smoking. Beers in their hands. Tattoos covering every inch of
visible skin. Couple of them were checking out the Cayenne. They were
nice enough here. For the most part. Still, weren’t a lot of
Ivory Coast natives running around at Cook’s on a Wednesday
night.
    “You want something to drink?”
    “Sure.”
    “Cool.” I took a couple quick hits off my cigarette,
pitched it, took her hand, and said, “Let’s go.”

    FOR ALL ITS FAME, COOK'S is just a bar inside. The floor is beat to
shit. There are tables with stools. There is a bar with stools. There
is a bartender behind the bar and in front of an impressive line of
liquor bottles. Cook’s has acoustic ceiling tiles with shirts
thumb tacked over most of the available space. There are
stained-glass covered lamps with bulbs burned out. Ceiling fans with
bulbs burned out. There are beer mirror’s everywhere. There are
pictures of groups of bikers hanging between the mirrors. There are
Angel and Dodger pennants. Bud Light and Coors Light banners. And
there are bikers drinking.
    I was kind of hoping when we walked in that everyone would stop
talking and turn and stare at us. The music on the jukebox would
stop. And maybe an old guy sitting in the corner would cackle at the
carnage that was about to occur.
    Nothing. Nobody even glanced at us. It took a few seconds for our
presence to penetrate the conversations. Then a few glances. Then
there were second glances. Then there were outright stares. I wanted
someone to be offended by the white/black thing. I didn’t get
what I wanted. They were staring at Alex because she was gorgeous,
exotic, not of this world. Where was a white supremacist asshole when
you wanted one? I held Alex’s hand, my skin tingling
pleasantly, and walked up to the bar.
    “Can I get ya?” the bartender asked. She was pretty in a
haggard, abused, kind of way. You know the kind, looks forty, is
twenty-one. Big tits in a spaghetti-strap tank top. I glanced at Alex
and her camisole. Both had spaghetti straps. That was the end of the
similarities.
    “Couple screwdrivers, please.”
    She snorted. “OK.”
    I looked around. Alex did the same. The stares ended. Reduced to
glances. Then nothing. This wasn’t working out the way I