We’d just left the Gemini Giant on our trip along Route 66 when we rounded a curve and came into a town with motorcycles lined up along the street but no bikers anywhere to be seen.
I was instantly intrigued. We had to stop and check this place out.
“They’re all inside the biker bar,” my brother-in-law explained.
I pretended to be taking pictures of other things, as I sometimes do to disguise my true intentions, in case they were watching me through the window and felt like I was spying on their hangout – – which I was.
“Ah, look!” My brother-in-law announced. “Their secret door.” He pointed.
Sure enough, on closer inspection, there were two doors, not one. Next to the red door that appeared to be the entrance into the Rustic Saloon, there was a second door – – one with a peephole in it to allow a good look at the person seeking to come inside. The red one very clearly said PRIVATE.
All kinds of things started swirling in my mind about what was happening behind those doors at The Rustic Saloon. We’d started making up table stories about situations that left us wondering about things we knew nothing about, so I’d drawn some sketchy concoctions of possibilities, like the workers in Meg Ryan’s bookstore in You’ve Got Mail when they suspect that Frank might be the Unabomber, or that her secret email admirer might be the Rooftop Killer.
Playing shuffleboard wasn’t ever what I envisioned in my mind’s menu of shady things, but apparently that’s what they do in there. After coming home and checking The Rustic Saloon out on the review page on Yelp, I see now why they might want to have that peephole in the door. They’re checking for people with long arms to join their team.
My apologies to all the bikers in there playing an honest game of shuffleboard or darts and having a hamburger and a Coca-Cola. I shouldn’t have thought the worst.
Apologies, too, to the waitress in Illinois who claimed she wasn’t from the small town where we ate lunch and had no idea where the nearest convenience store was – we had quite a novel about her hidden identity written at our table by the time we paid the bill. Our imaginations ran a little wild with all the speculation about the world and its people from time to time.
And in my writer’s mind, I shrug it off. I was just coming up with a few new characters in some different settings, I tell myself.
Because that’s what writers do.
Common Threads 