The Steel Horse Saloon
[I read this at the Dad Voices event at the Dad 2.0 Summit, posting here for anyone who wants to revise it. Also, I changed the name of the bar so I don’t get murdered.]
I had dreams of becoming a screenwriter. Once, my wife and I attended a party hosted by the showrunner of a popular sci-fi reboot. The hostess knew I was trying to break in, so she introduced me to all of the writers in the room.
One writer, who worked on a successful sitcom asked me, “Which show do you write for?”
I said, “Well, I’m not a screenwriter, but...”
She literally turned away from me mid-sentence. I ended up finishing my phrase to the back of her head as she joined another conversation.
I went up to my wife and told her what happened, expecting a sympathetic incredulous look. Instead, my wife, my rock, said, “If you don’t believe you’re a screenwriter, no one else will.”
Months later, I decided to take a well-deserved break from my work as a stay-at-home parent of twin newborns and go on a short three-day road trip along historic Route 66 to recapture the last threads of sanity available. I had plans on selling the resulting story to a travel magazine because, unlike most travel stories, I was going to visit trashy roadside attractions and little-known hangouts.
One of the hangouts I chose to visit was the Steel Horse Saloon, a biker bar located in the California desert just north of dirt and sand, and a place known for their catfish fries despite being nowhere near a body of water where catfish might live.
I arrived just as they opened at noon. The woman behind the bar looked exactly like the type of woman you’d expect to see manning a biker bar in the middle of the desert.
“What can I get you, honey?” she asked.
“Catfish,” I said.
“No catfish today,” she said. “You like ribs?”
The ribs came, smothered in thick barbecue sauce. And I have to admit they were a goddamn flavor bukkake. And yes, I mean my face was covered.
As I worked my way through the massive basket of saucy food, a man approached from the darkness of the unlit area of the bar. He walked with a limp and though he was thin, his arms looked taught.
He introduced himself as the owner of the Steel Horse Saloon and sat down next to me. The bartender, the owner and I were now the only people in the establishment. He asked what I did for a living and I remembered my wife’s words. “If you don’t believe you’re a screenwriter, no one will.”
I said, “I’m a screenwriter.”
His welcoming smile broadened. “What kind?”
“Action, biopic, comedy—whatever,” I said. I believed it. Now, he would, too.
“I wrote a book. You should read it,” he said. “It would make a great movie.”
“I bet,” I said, not knowing if I would actually bet on it.
He then got up, disappeared into the dark and returned with his only copy of his memoir, probably printed on a friend’s aging dot matrix machine.
He plopped it next to my basket of ribs and said, “Read it. It’s about my time in prison for manslaughter.”
I tried to use the excuse agents and studio reps use: “I can’t legally read this without representation. It could open me up to potential lawsuit.”
“I ain’t gonna sue you,” he said. “Read it.”
“Now?”
“Yeah, now.”
I wiped the sauce from my fingers and started reading. It was a gritty tale of a man who has to fight and, yes, maim people to survive a years-long stint in the pokey after “accidentally” killing someone. And it wasn’t fiction. And the author was sitting next to me.
I tried to show genuine interest in the book, while also showing genuine interest in the ribs. But that meant I went through ream of napkins as I took a bite, then wiped my hands clean, then turned a page, read about him shivving a snitch on the shower, then went back to the ribs. I didn’t know what would happen if my clumsy trembling fingers decorated a critical page with a smear of hickory smoked goodness.
I finished the first chapter and said, “It’s good.”
The bartender leaned over, exposing cleavage damaged by decades of bumpy roads. “I just want you to know I’m psychic and I know you are going to be a successful screenwriter.”
I doubted anyone with actual psychic abilities would be manning the bar at a desolate stop on a forgotten highway. But she did know I wasn’t yet successful.
Still, her words did not help the fact that I was trying to exorcise myself from the scene.
“The owner tapped his manuscript. “Keep reading.” I did.
I made it through the second chapter and repeated, “It’s good.”
It wasn’t good. It was terrifying.
He tapped the book again. “Go on.”
The psychic bartender must’ve intuited my fear because she slapped the owner on the arm and said, “Let him go. He doesn’t have all day.”
I thanked them both for the hospitality and, just for consistency’s sake, told them, “If I make it back this way, I’ll swing by.”
I didn’t mean I’d swing by to option the book for a multi-million dollar film staring Michael Fassbender, but if he thought that and thought that was enough to let me go quietly, I was cool with that. They waved as I drove away.
As the aging pavement of the Mother Road rolled beneath my wheels, I called my wife. I wanted her to know that I took her advice and it almost got me killed.
