Chapter 16 — The Honky Tonk

The night Sawyer went to the honky tonk was the worst night of his life. It was an old tavern at the edge of town. Some called it The Road House. It was a run-down saloon filled with hazy smoke so thick you could have cut it with a knife. It was the day after Sawyer and Stephanie had broken up. He had an empty feeling in his gut and a feeling of dread. A sense of loss so great that Sawyer thought nothing in his life would ever feel right again. His heart ached, and he couldn’t bring himself to go home to his empty house. He had just downed two shots of whiskey one after the other when he heard a woman’s voice say, “You look like you’re hurtin bad, Mister. Wanna talk about it?”

Sawyer shrugged, staring straight ahead.

The woman must have taken it for a ‘yes’ because she hiked up her skirt and jumped up on the bar stool beside him. “I’m Betty Lou,” she said in a squeaky voice. “Nice to meetcha.”

It was one of those things where he didn’t want to look, but he had to. He could see Betty Lou in the mirror between the spaces of liquor bottles lining the shelves. She had short bleached blonde hair, chalky white skin that never saw the sun, and wore bright red lipstick. A loose woman. The kind of woman his grandmother told him to stay away from because they carried diseases. He shifted his eyes without moving his head. He could see her legs swinging back and forth, the tiny skirt hardly covering her. Betty Lou was trouble, and he made the mistake of buying her a drink, and he had another whiskey. She dragged him out to the dance floor even though he’d told her he didn’t know how to dance.

Betty Lou put his arms around her waist tight. They couldn’t have got a toothpick between them. She wrapped both arms around his neck, and they stood in one place swaying to the music—a country song—a ‘somebody done somebody wrong song.’ The words fit. Sawyer listened to the words, drowning in his misery. Everything was okay until Betty Lou talked in her squeaky little voice. “This feels nice. I’ll bet you pray a lot, don’t cha. I mean bein’ a Mennonite and all.” Sawyer didn’t answer. That was the worst thing Betty Lou could have said. It brought up memories of his grandmother.

His grandmother, Nell, prayed every day. She used to tell him that no matter how bad things were—God would get him through it. By the time the song was over, Sawyer was disgusted with himself. Everything seemed dirty; the air, the woman—doused in cheap perfume. The smell made him feel nauseous. Guilt-ridden, and feeling sick and dizzy, he pushed out of Betty Lou’s hold and headed towards the door.

“I’m here, honey,” Betty Lou said in her annoying voice, throwing her arm around his shoulder. He staggered outside, supported by Betty Lou. She led him to an old broken-down clunker. She opened the door, and he fell into the back seat. “This is where I conduct business,” she said with a high-pitched giggle. The car smelled stale like cigarette smoke and beer.

Sawyer’s stomach was queasy. Betty Lou’s tongue was in his ear; her breath smelled like the car—only worse. “It won’t cost much,” she said, getting down to business. “That’s cause I like you. I wouldn’t charge you at all, but my rent’s due on the first of the month. A girl has to live. Twenty-dollars, okay?”

“I can’t do this,” Sawyer slurred. “I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

Her tone changed from sweet to sour. Betty Lou was getting down to business. “Is it because you’re a Mennonite, and you pray a lot, or don’t you have the money?”

His face skewed when car lights from a passing car shone on Betty Lou, and he saw her face clearly: bright red lips against pasty white skin. Her hair, blonde and scraggly. She looked like a clown. She was God awful ugly. He heaved, and Betty Lou opened up the door and shoved him out. Sawyer stumbled out into the night, grasping for the only thing he could find—a fence post. He hung onto the fence post, leaned over, and purged himself of the whiskey and everything else he’d eaten that day. It left a bad taste in his mouth—like Betty Lou. When he stood upright, he wiped his mouth with a handkerchief and looked around. Betty Lou was gone.

He leaned against the fence post and watched the blinking sign on the roadhouse—wondering how it had happened. He got up and dusted himself off, realizing he had to pee. Damned, he didn’t want to go back in there. Keeping his head down, though the smoky haze and dim light, he saw Betty Lou dancing with a pot-bellied man with stubble on his chin. They were locked together swaying to a country song. He guessed Betty Lou was going to make her rent.