Elaine Miller
It's all true, though a bit of a shaggy-dog story.
Goth/Rocker Grrl in a Country-Western Bar -- by Elaine Miller
Sometimes I live a little on the wild side, I admit it. But I'm still not sure why I agreed to take a ride out to Coquitlam after we were all out dancing in some of Vancouver's roughest underground bars. A sleepy suburb about a half hour's drive out, Coquitlam housed a good friend of mine, and it was at her house that we were all to stay. I crawled onto the first soft spot, the couch, at 4am, and barely had time to strip before I fell asleep.
I was shaken awake, squinting against the daylight, by one of my dance-partners the night before. Shading my eyes, I noticed that everyone was dressed and grinning.
"We're going out for breakfast! Hurry up! It's already the afternoon!"
"Mmmph?"
"Get up!"
Groggy, I rolled off the couch, reached for the pile of clothes on the floor and did a reverse of last night's strip. It's worth noting that the items, in order, were; socks, faded Levis, black leather chaps, silk shirt, a skull-embossed bandana wrapped about my brow, and big men's black motorcycle boots with spurs. It's worth noting further that the spurs have a lovely audible "clank" as I walk. With a swipe at the dark makeup still remaining on my face, and a fast swig of mouthwash, I was pulled to the waiting car, draping my long black leather trenchcoat around my shoulders as I stumbled out into the suburban day.
We arrived at a homely little strip mall, and I learned that we were to have a buffet breakfast in the Boo pub, a country-western bar that reputedly was so country they had saddles at the bar. Aghast, and still waking up, I demanded to know what kind of evil breakfast food a country pub might have, and swept ahead of everyone irritably, stomping through the saloon-type doors, which swung obligingly to and fro behind me. I stopped to survey the pub.
A crowd of behatted men in cowboy shirts and boots were eating and drinking there. At the sound of my clanking footstep, and the rhythmic creak of the saloon doors, they stopped chewing, stopped talking, turned to face me, and froze. I had at least seven seconds of silent regard from about 20 cowboys in a real saloon before my sleepy brain told me what was happening.
I was the desperado character in a low-budget western. And it was MY line.
"Awright boys, don't nobody move. Nobody get in my way, and none of y'all will get shot fulla holes."
Disappointingly, my crowd of friends coming belatedly after me dispelled the illusion before I could belly up to the bar and order orange juice. I guess all good movie careers come to an end sometime.
And the breakfast? It was terrible.
