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At The Maverick Saloon

Don't Piss Me Off

By Alice Donenfeld-VernouxPublished 3 years ago 9 min read
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Fancy Lady needs a break. Twenty-five years she spent as attorney and corporate executive. She’s close to a nervous breakdown.

Her last corporate gig has been sold and she’s chosen to not go with the new owners. She spent too many years dedicated to pushing one or the other companies’ bottom line up to unexpected heights. At the same time, she exhausted herself by working—long days on business trips, longer hours at conventions, hours upon hours at her desk to catch up with paperwork accumulated while she was on the road. Short time for family and friends. And for what? Ungrateful bastards who fired over five hundred dedicated employees one fine Friday afternoon? Fancy had sat in her big elegant executive office with the wall to wall picture window watching people who had given their all for the company stagger out in a state of shock. Jobless, no warning. Toting transfile boxes filled with coffee mugs, pencil cups, flowers, family photos and the rest of their lives, they stood by their cars and looked back at the building that for years was their fortress against unemployment. Tears streamed down her face as she watched the procession leave and vowed it was the last soul-less corporation to have her hide.

Instead, she’s moved fulltime to her weekend getaway in the Santa Ynez Valley, just north of Santa Barbara. Known as the Central Coast Wine Country, by 1988 the area is becoming famous for good wines, movie star ranches like Michael Jackson’s ‘Never Land Ranch.’ The likes of Bo and John Derek, Steven Segal and then wife, Kelly LeBrock call it home. At El Rancho Market Fancy might stand in the check-out counter next to Bernie Taupin, Elton John’s writing partner, James Garner, or Kiefer Sutherland. Sometimes Michael drives around with a mask over his face in a blue Bronco.

The Valley is also home to cowboys and Indians. The Chumash Reservation down the road hasn’t yet discovered how a casino can oil their wallets, better than finding the black liquid gold. For now Native Americans living on the ‘Res’ do odd jobs on the local ranches. The Santa Ynez Valley is starting to come into its own as wine country, but ranches and horses are the local stock in trade.

And then, there’s the Maverick Saloon. On one foray into town, Fancy spots a ramshackle dark brown wooden building with a front porch and railing that looks like horses should be hitched to it. ‘Fern bars’ obviously not welcome.

She pulls her silver Mercedes into a spot bracketed by dusty trucks inhabited by big dogs, tongues lolling out the sides of their mouths and looking most interested by the strange closed silver vehicle inhabited by a very well groomed Soft Coated Wheaten Terrier named Tug.

The sound of honky-tonk piano drifts out through the open door along with smoke, loud conversation and laughter. After all the western movies Fancy’s seen, she’s finally going into a ‘real’ cowboy bar. As she enters, she hears a New York City Detective friend’s voice in her mind telling her, “Fancy, you love to go into places I wouldn’t get within a mile of without my gun drawn.” Hmmm. Is this one of those places? She certainly hopes so.

As she makes her way through plaid and striped western-yoke-shirted-shoulders to the bar, conversation stops. Everyone turns to look at the stranger in town. She’s dead pan and orders a red wine. The bartender, a young woman with pretty round face and long straight blonde hair, looks horrified. “Do you really want red wine? It comes from a box!” In the middle of the wine country?

Fancy’s a bit taken aback. She decides it’s safer to order a rum and coke.

The bartender, Janice, serves the drink. “You new in town?” she asks.

“Yes, just bought a place out on Baseline.”

“Okay then, welcome to the Maverick Saloon. Don’t mind the cowboys, they’re just havin’ a good time.” She motions to a young man, probably mid to late twenties, dressed in ratty jeans and a wrinkled, holey and dirty tee-shirt. “This here’s Bosco - does gardening if you need some help ‘round the place.”

He switches his beer from his right hand to his left and shakes. “Good to meet you. Where’s your place at?” and just like that Fancy is a member of the community. Bosco is followed everywhere by a large black and white spotted dog, Boomer, who looks like a Dalmatian crossed with a Border Collie and other odd DNA thrown in for good measure. Boomer sits behind the wheel in Bosco’s truck, paws on the steering wheel, patiently waiting for his master and checking out the goings and comings at the Maverick. The local legend is Boomer takes over and drives the truck home when Bosco has a few too many beers. Probably does, Fancy Lady thinks.

Fancy sips her drink and studies the bar and its denizens. The walls are dark wood, and the ceiling has dollar bills tacked up like wallpaper, each one bearing a business card. As soon as she has the second round, her business cards join the others.

The smoke’s as thick in the Maverick as the laughter and bonhomie. Also testosterone. Everyone smokes and Fancy peers through the billowing clouds to check out the other drinkers bellied up to the bar. Damn, they’re really cowboys. Coming from New York, the only actual cowboys she’s seen was at the rodeo at Madison Square Garden.

After a while, Fancy Lady learns the local terminology, the cowboys and ranchers are ‘hats’ and the businessmen are ‘suits.’ The bar is filled with hats, most of them cowboy, some baseball. Wrangler jeans are the uniform. And tight, too. Fancy’d never seen so many attractive man-butts in one place before, and they’re all attached to good looking rugged men, for the most part wearing western shirts outlining broad muscled backs, and dusty black or tan Stetsons. Yup, she’s landed in testosterone town! Yummmy!

In the background Johnny Cash is working to be heard over the din of loud voices. As she gets used to the noise and the smoke and finally tears her eyes off the tight jeans, she notices the bar fills the front left part of the saloon. On the right are a few tables straggling towards the back of the room—mostly filled by a large pool table and players. Behind the bar area a few more tables nestle near an upright piano tucked in a corner. The entire ceiling is filled with those dollar bills and business cards, an occasional pair of skivvies nailed near the cards, a hat or small toy. Everyone seems to be having a good time, even the loud yelling is good natured.

The conversation stops for a moment as the distinctive sound of several Harleys rumble and bark in through the door, taking precedence over the juke box and voices. Oh, crap. Here it comes, Fancy thinks, we’re going to get killed in a rumble between the cowboys and the bikers. She looks around for help. Janice, the bartender is deep in conversation with a very handsome Native American gentleman wearing a black hat with feathers and a long braid hanging down his neck. The two are almost nose to nose across the bar and from their body language they’re a couple and oblivious to the imminent arrival of the wild bunch.

Three bikers enter the bar dressed in black leathers. Shoulder to shoulder they stand in the doorway. Appraising the action. Red and white checked café curtains bracket the door and frame the tall, broad silent men. Cotton neckerchiefs are rolled into head bands keeping long straggly hair in place as they stand, feet planted apart, hands fisted at their sides. Fancy Lady fears the stance as menacing. First there’s silence. Ominous? Then the yelling and laughing starts again. The bikers fold into the crowd with cowboys slapping them on the shoulder or back, man-hugs all around as they make shove into the bar to order beers. Obviously they’re all friends. Fancy let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. Who knew cowboys and bikers got along?

The Maverick Saloon is Fancy Lady’s home away from home for the next twelve years. Friends know if they can’t find her at the ranch, they call the Maverick and either she’s there, or whoever’s tending bar knows where she is. The Mav, as it’s fondly called, is the hub of the town. Its owners are the center of local social life, plan town events, festivals, weddings, holiday parties—unofficial social directors. No one’s alone in Santa Ynez as long as they can crawl or drag themselves to the Mav. It’s the place where you find a recommendation for a good plumber, gardener, and electrician; learn who’s a badass, who’s a cheater. Find a new lover or just dump the old one. There are no secrets at the Mav.

Sunday afternoons a honky-tonk band plays. It’s a piano, singer and violin/guitar player. The singer has a wonderful voice and knows every country song ever played on Nashville radio in the last fifty years. She also knows some that weren’t. The bar is crowded on Sundays, the pool table pushed over in a corner and those who are inclined dance in the postage size space. The decibels between the music and the yelling at the bar almost requires earplugs to survive. Every table is filled, even those on the porch crowd together, beers in hand, talking with friends.

One Sunday Fancy Lady’s at the bar with a girlfriend, Carm, who’s at the ranch visiting from Los Angeles. They’re enjoying the sights, tight Wranglers, that is, and watching people try to dance on the miniscule dance floor. Carm shouts in Fancy’s ear, “What’s the name of the song they’re playing?”

Fancy answers, “You Piss Me Off You Fuckin’ Jerk.”

Carms face turns bright red, “How could you say that to me? What have I ever done to make you so angry?”

The noise level in the bar is even louder than usual. Fancy’s laughing so hard she can hardly speak as she leans back towards Carm, “That’s the name of the song.” Her answer is a bit garbled, she’s close to hysteria.

Carm shouts back, “I can’t hear you. Why are you so mad at me?”

“…not mad!...name of song?”

“What’s wrong with asking the name of the song?”

“That is the name of the song.”

“What’s the name of the song?”

“You Piss Me Off You Fuckin’ Jerk.”

“There you go again. What’s wrong with you? …and stop laughing! It’s not funny!”

By now Fancy’s head is on the bar, tears running down her cheeks and she’s convulsed with laughter. All she can do is wave and put her palm up.

Carm’s furious and starts yelling over the music and chatter. “Answer me, stop laughing and don’t treat me like that.” Some of the people at the bar are turning around to see what the fight’s about.

One of the cowboys has been listening to the whole shebang and touches Carm on the shoulder, “Ma’am, is there some problem?…can I help?”

“All I did was ask the name of a song and all she does is swear and insult me.” The cowboy looks perplexed. “You mean the last song the band played?”

“Yes.”

“It’s called ‘You Piss Me Off You Fuckin’ Jerk.’ Was that the one?”

Carm looks at him with hate. “Oh, damn! You too?” By now Fancy is outright crying, hiccoughing and can’t catch her breath.

Just then, the band takes a break. The cowboy looks bemused as he gently takes Carm’s hand, “I’m sorry ma’am, I didn’t mean anything, but that is the name of the song.”

She gulps. “I see.” Then Carm turns red and howls with laughter too.

Just another Sunday at the Maverick Saloon.

friendship
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About the Creator

Alice Donenfeld-Vernoux

Alice Donenfeld, entertainment attorney, TV producer, international TV distributor, former VP Marvel Comics & Executive VP of Filmation Studios. Now retired, three published novels on Amazon, and runs Baja Wordsmiths creative writing group.

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