And you may ask yourself: Am I right? ...am I wrong?
My father played Johnny Cash and Peter, Paul, and Mary records when I was a kid. He sang along with the Irish Rovers, Bob Dylan, Arlo Guthrie, and when I turned old enough to chose my own tunes I picked the punk music I knew my father would hate. I grooved to The Clash, the Vapours, the Sex Pistols, played my saxophone loud and mean, growled my angst into the mouthpiece, let the reed vibrate emotion through the house, just a safety-pin rocker chick in torn clothes and a bad mohawk.
Now I listen to the music of my father. And so it goes. My best girlfriend, Shanna, calls it Hee Haw music, and when we drive down to San Diego for Girls Night Out we take turns playing songs on my CD player. I try to pick stuff I think she might like - a little Roger Cline, a little Springsteen. She tries to pick stuff I'll like - a little Aerosmith, a little Van Halen, and we dance together down the 5 like spastic teenagers two plus decades removed.
Shanna loves her metal music, howled at the moon when she got a date with another Metallica fan, called me eight times the morning of our double date.
"Birdie! Don't forget mascara! I want to wear dark eyes, ok?"
"Yes, Shanna, no prob. Mascara. I'll bring the new Avon lash builder stuff. It really gives you that Runaway Bride look." I waited to hear Shanna laugh, but she didn't seem to hear me.
"And Birdie! Bring all your black clothes. We need to look like biker chicks." I could hear Shanna scratch a list of important things, could picture her standing at the Mexican tile counter I watched her install in her kitchen, a no-nonsense yellow legal pad under her arm, workman's pencil in hand, stained t-shirt, grout-splattered leggings.
I arrived at Shanna's beachy cottage three hours before liftoff. I carried my backpack stuffed with Avon makeup and hair spray and carried a plastic bag full of clothes that might fit Shanna. I wore my favorite strapless dress, the skintight one with pretty spring flowers and my fishnet tights, black high heeled boots. Shanna left her front door open, carved tiki standing guard beside the entry, a black roar of Metallica pouring out, over the star jasmine vines, over the sidewalk. A middle-aged surfer sat on his porch across the street, waxing his board. He leered at me, raised one eyebrow in hopeful greeting.
"Never fear! The Avon Lady is here!" I yelled into the void, stomped inside, dropped my stuff on the floor, got right to work. Shanna looked like a new woman when I finished her makeover. Her hair curled around her face in ringlets, blue Avon Mark lipstick across her lips, dark Avon Glimmerstick-rimmed bedroom eyes, and she wore the dress I wore at the Avon Cracker Server funeral, a sexy long black sheer number. I gave her a fake gold choker (Avon) and long dangling earrings with jet black beads (Avon). The girl was lookin' fine!
We drove five miles to a biker bar in the town next door. We talked as we drove, about boys we've loved and lost, about the men we would meet that night. Shanna sent me their photo the day before, a faded portrait of two rockers on a dirty stage, both oh so young, both sporting greasy mullets.
"God, he's so cute, don't you think?" Shanna unfolded a printed out copy of the photograph and pointed to her date. "I don't know how tall he is, but he looks tall in the picture."
I didn't look at the paper, kept my hands on the wheel, rolled my eyes and laughed. "He's cute in the way that my kids' friends are cute, Shanna. He's so young. He has to be under thirty."
Shanna smacked me in the right arm. "Remember, girl. Young ones have more stamina. You haven't dated in a year, and God, it's been even longer for me. I just want to sleep with him, you know?"
Yeah, I knew. I think about sleeping with men, too, but don't put mullet and Metallica in my fondest fantasies.
The biker bar wasn't difficult to find. It resides near a Harley dealership, near the railroad tracks, near a strip joint, near all things gritty and defiant. We parked in the back of the lot. The front half was filled with at least thirty Harleys. We craned our necks to adjust lipstick and hair in the review mirror, and stepped out into the nighttime marine air. I tried to adjust my fishnets, make them straight and uniform, but they had a mind of their own and twisted in a gentle spiral down my right leg.
A group of men stood near their machines, smoking unfiltered cigarettes, holding glasses of beer and spirits, wearing black leather with fringe and the orange logo of their favorite brand. Shanna lunged for them, walked with her slightly bowlegged gait, no fear, no concern.
"Hey, guys? Do you know anyone named Joel? I'm meeting him here tonight." I hung back, afraid of men with cigarettes and alcohol, watched Shanna bum a drag off a cigarette from an older biker with a serious paunch and a navy blue bandana tied around his head. She waved me over, grabbed my arm, pulled me inside the bar. I felt the eyes of the men on our backs.
I never saw so many Harley boys in my entire life in one spot. They lined the wall of the bar, occupied every booth, leaned over every pool table, every floor tile sagging under the weight of steel-toed boots. A few women in jeans and leather jackets held bottles of imported beer. They looked aggressive. I turned to Shanna.
"Oh man, I'm outta here! This is way too scary for me!" Shanna held me back, kept her fingers wrapped around my elbow.
"Knock it off, Birdie. Hold on." She scanned the room with eyes slightly closed, and I watched the men watching us, watched two tall fellows in jeans and black t-shirts saunter our way. They both sported modified mullets, and I could tell with my expert Avon eye that they used some kind of hair gel to give their 'dos a slightly spikey texture. Wow, I thought. They look really young. Even younger than their photograph.
Shanna let go of my arm, gave the man with the black hair a big hug, and introduced me to my date, the red-headed mulletman.
"Birdie, this is Carl, Carl, this is Birdie." I reached out to shake his hand, wanted to say a kind greeting, but different words fell from my mind.
"Uh, hi. How old are you?" Carl laughed - which just made him look younger - and grinned. His voice sounded young, too, and as he spoke tiny freckles on his cheeks rose and fell.
"I'm 22. And I really love older women..."
He leaned in close, eyes on my strapless dress, tried to wrap his arm around me. I pushed him to the side with both hands, laughed, acted playful, coy, but under the surface I felt ridiculous and old. I walked behind him, behind Shanna and her tall mulletman, to a red vinyl booth in the darkest corner of the bar.
I wish I could tell you I danced to Metallica and Ironmaiden. I wish I could tell you I forgot my age, that I felt 20 years old, maybe 18, and that I drank six beers and took that red-headed boy as my lover. But I didn't. I didn't even come close to anything fun or fantastic. I sat in the booth and watched the increasing footsies of Shanna and Joel. We drank one beer, then two, then Shanna and Joel excused themselves to sneak outside for a smoke. I inched further away from Carl when he attempted to put his hand on my fishnetted thigh.
"Uh, Carl? So, tell me a little about yourself. What do you do outside of the band?" I have a daughter nearly his age, I thought as I asked the question. I have a daughter nearly his age, another daughter a bit younger, a son just four years younger. I'm old enough to be his mother.
"Joel and me ride our bikes up the coast sometimes. I like watching TV, you know, those reality shows like Fear Factor. I want to be on that show. I'd eat anything, pig testicles, cow snot, it doesn't matter. I can eat anything." Carl continued rattling on and on about reality shows I never knew existed, about the gross and daring dark moments of human entertainment, and I thought again about my age, about the gulf that divided us. His red hair spikes didn't move, stood straight at attention and I noticed he wore a bottom retainer. Wow, just a kid, I thought again.
"Cool. Fear Factor. I never saw that before." I tried to show interest, but my eyes kept wandering to the front door. What happened to Shanna?
"Heh heh heh." Carl gave an evil laugh, placed his hand back on my thigh, inched his butt along the wooden bench. "Is it true what they say about older women?"
I didn't even bother rolling my eyes. I lowered my voice to just above a whisper and drew out the spaces between my words with extra breath.
"Carl. Let me tell you a secret. You want to know about older women? Whatever you heard, just double it. No, triple it. Us women over thirty-five are in our peak sexual prime. We can all have multiple orgasms. Sometimes just by THINKING about sex. Sometimes when someone ELSE thinks about sex. Multiple orgasms, Carl. Every time." I slanted my eyes like a cat and winked. "And now, I must use the ladies room."
I stood, grabbed my purse, and sauntered toward the restrooms. Carl sat and stared, mouth fully open, retainer hanging out, and I saw him adjust his jeans with one hand. Men. Sheesh. A fat biker in a black leather jacket and brown chaps accosted me, swung his arm around my neck and held me tight against his stomach. I could feel his dinner squirming through his clothes, and I started to sweat in fear.
"Hey honey, where YOU goin' so fast?" He laughed, sprayed drunken spittle against my hair, and I steadied my feet strong against the floorboards and wholloped him with my purse. Thank goodness I still had that Avon bubble bath I meant to drop off at a customer's house. He doubled over in surprise and I ran, boots smacking the floor like the tail of a fish out of water, ran like hellfire to my car. Shanna and Joel didn't notice me; they stood one against the other against the stucco side of the building, melting metal, exorcising lonely demons. I waved, turned the motor and hit the gas. Shanna lifted one leg, waved it at me. Joel didn't see me at all.
The next night I attended a folk concert as an antidote. Alone.
2:58:35 PM 
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