As our host led us through the main dining room, the feast for the eyes continued. Colorful lights were strung up everywhere, and the walls were adorned with velvet paintings the likes of Marilyn Monroe, Andy Warhol, and John Waters. Papier mâché heads of famous religious leaders were mounted and hung like big game trophies. Everyone from Friar Tomás de Torquemada, the Inquisitor-General of the Spanish Inquisition, who’s mouth had been fitted with a ball gag, to televangelist mega-star Joel O’Sheen, his typically fluorescent white smile, painted an irreverent hot pink. Whoever decorated this place had an obvious disdain for organized religion. Everywhere the eye landed, was some sort of visual dig on church, or its leadership.
We came to a heavy wooden door at the far end of the dining room that lead us to a much smaller room with rough stone floors. The space had no windows and couldn’t have been more than ten feet by ten feet. The room was furnished with a small table and two chairs and was lit only by candle light. Not romantic candle light mind you, but more like a gothic castle, creepy Dracula shit. We were seated by two silent figures in robes adorned with pink sequins, who then left us alone.
“Okay, what the night-of-the-living-drag-queens is going on around here?” I asked.
“Shhh, don’t call them drag queens,” Clutch whispered. “I told you before, this isn’t a drag show, and these guys can be a little touchy about labels.”
“An ogre in a tiara named Friar Chuck cares about labels? Tell me, did the Franciscan brothers give him the name Chuck or was that his birth name?”
“Choosing a name, or identity for yourself, is not the same as having a label put on you, trust me,” Clutch said.
“I thought you didn’t get to choose your own names in your club?” I asked.
“True, but I choose to ride with the Burning Saints, and to abide by the club’s rules, so ultimately answering to the name Clutch is my choice,” he replied.
“Okay, but was being “labeled” Sargent at Arms your choice, or was that thrust on you?”
“I’ll tell you about thrusting it on you,” Clutch said with a smirk.
“Don’t change the subject,” I said.
“The Sargent’s patch was “bestowed” upon me, as it were,” he replied.
“How?” I pressed.
“During church, about three months after Rusty passed away—”
“Poor thing. Rusty was a sweet old guy.”
“Rusty was a cold-hearted bastard that would break someone’s leg for a dollar and give you back change. He also taught me a lot about living, and even more about dying. Anyway, Rusty was barely in the ground, and Cutter pointed the staff at me at me said out loud to the room, ‘Anyone here that’s got a problem with young Clutch picking up Rusty’s patch better come to me with a good fuckin’ reason, right here and right fuckin’ now.’”
“He didn’t ask you beforehand?”
“Never mentioned a word. As a matter of fact, I’m not even sure he’d uttered more than ten words directly to me. Until about two years prior I reported to Rusty, and then to Wolf.”
“So why did he spring it on you?”
“Because that’s the way Cutter started doing things at the end, real impulsively. At least that’s the way it seemed at the time... ” Clutch’s words drifted off.
“So... a label was thrust upon you without consent?” I said, bringing him back.
“Yeah, I guess so, but that’s different than what I’m talking about with these guys here.”
I smiled. “Of course, it is, but I got you to tell me something about you and your super-secret club.”
“Pretty sneaky, Doc.” He grinned. “Okay, then. I’ve got a question for you about Cutter.”
“A question for me about Cutter? What could I possibly know about him that you didn’t.”
“I want to know what his form of payment was to you,” he said.
“Payment? What are you talking about.”
“No, no, no. Don’t play games with me, Doc. The old man’s dead. Time to spill the beans. I heard you guys talking about it a couple times, but he’d never tell he how it was he’d repay you for taking care of the club all these years. I know you’d never take money, so what was it?”
“None of your business,” I said.
“So, I was right all along. It was sexual favors. Thanks, Doc, I just won five-hundred bucks in the club pool,” he said, smiling.
“No, you pervert. It’s just that it was something sweet and personal that he’d do for me. Well, not directly for me, but for others,” I said.
“Cutter doing something sweet? Now I know you’re lying,” Clutch said, leaning back in his chair. His massive muscular frame looked like it was stressing the limits of the antique wood.
“It was more than sweet, if you want to know the truth. He saved lives,” I said, and Clutch stopped smiling.
“What? Really?”
“Kids actually,” I replied. “I’d never accept club money, because I figured however it was made was not exactly blood free, so whenever I’d patch up a club member, Cutter would make a sizable and anonymous, donation to the pediatric oncology department at OHSU.”
Clutch looked stunned.
“You really never knew about this?” I asked.
“Never heard a word about it. It’s probably why the club is broke,” he mumbled.
“What?”
“Nothing. Wow, that’s crazy. He helped a lot of kids then, huh?”
“The Burning Saints did, when you think about it,” I replied.
“I guess so,” he said, looking a bit proud.
“So, how do you know the owner of this, whatever this place is?” I asked.
“The Saints have known ‘Robert the Oral’ since way back before there was a Pink Priest.
“Robert the Oral?” I asked.
“Yeah, Bob’s kind of anti-religion.”
“I noticed,” I said, smirking.
“Yeah, well he’s especially down with people he sees as ‘profiting off the word of God.’”
“So, is he some sort of true believer?” I asked.
“Ha, ha, ha. No, Bob’s about as atheist as they come, he’s just not angry at every religious person. He likes to give his people titles that poke fun at famous people of the cloth. Once you meet him you’ll understand a little more.”
“What’s this place all about, then?” I asked, motioning to our surroundings.
“Mostly, the Pink Priest is a restaurant, and a damned good one at that. Bob is a kick ass chef.”
“Wow, he’s the head chef as well as the owner?”
“After culinary school he worked in Paris and New York, but dreamed of opening his own, unique place in Portland, so we helped him.”
“How did you become friends?” I asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I assume he was a friend of the club’s in order for you to want to help him get his restaurant off the ground,” I replied.
“Doc, that’s not quite the way my line of business works,” he said, flashing his devilish smile.
“What do you mean?” I asked, leaning in closer, my curiosity now entering the red zone.
“Let’s just say that without our club’s help, this place couldn’t have been built, let alone been able to thrive. I’ll just leave it at that.”
“You tease. You’ve got to tell me more than that,” I protested.
“Not my story to tell,” was all Clutch would say, and put his hands up.
“Okay then, let’s go back to you becoming Sargent at Arms,” I said, before a tall, slender man, who I’d assumed was our server came in.
“Clutch, I heard you were here, but I had to see you with my own eyes to believe it,” the man said as he burst through the door.
“We’re not done with this,” I whispered.
“Hey, Jimmy,” Clutch said, getting up to embrace the him. Clutch then brought Jimmy, who was dressed in a black and white checkerboard suit, over to the table. He wore a wire-framed top hat,
that also doubled as a birdcage, complete with a tiny stuffed canary, perched inside.
“Jimmy Swagger, please meet Doctor Gina Gardner,” Clutch said, about as formally as I’d ever heard him say anything.
Jimmy was a handsome African American man, with a clean-shaven head and deep-set eyes that sat behind bright red frames. He stared at me with an intense gaze, before simply, saying, “Doctor.”
“Eldie is fine,” I said extending my hand, which remained outstretched and untouched for what felt like an eternity as Jimmy’s eyes remained locked onto mine. He said nothing, but I swear I felt him peering into my very soul. I began to feel my upper lip sweat and wondered if Jimmy could somehow read my thoughts. Just when I thought I’d crack from the intense awkward pressure, Jimmy clapped loudly and screamed.
“We love her!” he exclaimed, his surprise declaration making me jump in my seat. He smiled wide and leaned down for a huge hug.
“Robert is so happy you are here. He’s preparing something amazing for the two of you for dinner. First, please allow us to make you both cocktails.”
“Thank you, Jimmy,” Clutch said, nodding.
“Yes, thank you,” I replied. “I’ll have a—”
“My dearest Eldie, Jimmy knows exactly what you want, more specifically, Jimmy knows exactly what you need,” he said before turning on his Berluti’s and exiting as swiftly as he entered.
“So, that was Jimmy,” Clutch said, returning to his seat.
“And, Jimmy, among other things, talks about himself in the third person,” I said, laughing.
“Yes, Jimmy does. He’s also been Bob’s husband for eighteen years, as loyal a person as they come, and is kind of a wizard with cocktails.”
“I picked up on that as well. I’m also going to go out on a limb and guess he’s also the one behind the décor.”
“So, now that you know a little about the place and the people who make it tick it, let me tell you why we’re here,” Clutch smiled and took my hand, a gesture of tenderness that I wasn’t expecting. It’s not like he hadn’t been sweet to me thus far, but this simple act seemed somehow vulnerable. “Like I said earlier, I wanted to thank you for everything that you did back at my place, and to maybe explain myself a little.” Clutch said softly.
“Explain yourself? What do you mean?” I asked.
“I don’t know. Look, this is kind of weird for me. Explaining my feelings that is, and I thought maybe this place would make it easier somehow.”
“How did you figure that? This place is like something out of a Fellini film,” I laughed.
“True, the Priest has a certain chaotic energy to it, but the confessional was designed to be a place for two people to sit down and be honest with one another while sharing a meal.”
“Sounds more like couple’s therapy than a date,” I said.
“Yeah, well, that’s the thing... ”
“Is this couple’s therapy?” I squawked.
“No! Not exactly, but it’s usually something that people that are much closer do together,” Clutch said, letting go of my hand. “This was a bad idea,” he said, getting up.
“No, it’s fine,” I said, reaching for his arm. “If this is the kind of thing that you usually do on a date then I’m willing to give it a shot,” I said, trying my best to stow the utter terror I was feeling inside.
Intimacy was not something I was looking for here. I’d hooked up with Clutch because I thought it was just that, a hook up. I’ll admit that I had some trouble getting off the bull once the ride was over, but I was a little afraid of where this was all going, and this bizarre atmosphere wasn’t exactly helping.
Clutch sat back down. “No, that’s just it. I’ve never taken anyone here and I haven’t seen the inside of the confessional since the first time I was given a tour of the place.”
“Then, why me?”
“That’s the thing that’s hard for me to say, exactly,” he said, brushing a hand through his beard.
“Then say it, inexactly, please,” I said. “Because I’m starting to feel a little weird about this whole thing.”
“I guess I brought you here tonight because I feel comfortable with you,” he said, looking satisfied with his answer.
“Wow, you do suck at this,” I said, crossing my arms. “Please explain. Comfortable? Comfortable how? Like a new sofa or an old shoe?”
“Okay, take it easy,” he said, to which I raised an eyebrow.
“Also, the wrong thing to say,” he said, pushing away from the table, and rising to his feet once again. “Look, here’s the deal. I like you Doc, and you make me feel... fuck... comfortable. Maybe that’s a shitty word, but I’m not trying to insult you, I’m trying to compliment you. Comfortable is not a way that I’ve felt a lot in my life, far from it actually. I didn’t have a family, and until the Saints, I never really fit in anywhere. Now, my club is changing, and I’m not even sure how I fit in there anymore. Until recently, I haven’t been able to talk to my best friend about anything I’ve been going though because he was part of my problems. Usually I walk around feeling like there’s a dark cloud hanging over my head, but when I’m around you I feel... different, and I guess I didn’t want us to go any further before I told you that.”
Gina
I felt like a bitch.
No, let me rephrase that. I felt like the biggest bitch ever. The utter shame and self-loathing I felt at that moment was like nothing I’d ever experienced. The courage that it must have taken Clutch to invite me here and open up like that, and my audacity to feel uncomfortable made me want to stab myself with one of the high heel shoes now in my purse. I was clearly some sort of emotionally detached robot person. My medical license should’ve been stripped from me on the spot.
I burst into tears.
“Jesus Christ, Doc! Are, you okay?” Clutch asked, coming over to my side of the table, and placing his arms around me.
“Yes, I’m sorry, I don’t know why I’m crying. What you said was so sweet, and unexpected, and... sweet.”
“You said that already, Doc,” he said, wiping the tears from eyes, and gently kissing my forehead.
Jimmy returned with our drinks, flanked by two servers in matching hot pink leather uniforms who were each pushing carts. He immediately noticed that I’d been crying and shot a look at Clutch.
“What have you done? Why is the Queen crying, biker boy?” Jimmy asked in a voice I was sure would get him punched out cold.
“It’s okay, Jimmy, it was actually self-induced, well sort-of. Clutch did make me cry... but only because he said some very sweet things to me,” I said, blotting my tears with my napkin.
“If this barbarian doesn’t treat you right, you just let Jimmy know.”
Clutch, to my surprise, merely held his hands together and bowed to Jimmy.
“Thank you, Jimmy, he’s been a perfect gentleman,” she reiterated.
“Well, I hope he’s not all gentleman,” he said with a mischievous laugh. “Now, where were we? Oh, yes, cocktails!”
Jimmy went over to one of the carts and produced two beautiful concoctions. One, a beautiful blend of pink and orange hues, with a sugared rim, and the other bright green, served in a tall glass. To my surprise he set the pretty one in front of Clutch, and the other in front of me.
“The fuck is this thing?” Clutch asked.
“That, my dear boy is art. It’s called a Trixie Sunrise,” Jimmy said.
“It would’ve killed you to bring me a beer?” Clutch protested.
“It’s not merely the presentation and taste of a cocktail that make it beautiful. There are also the drink’s ingredients and their desired effects to take into consideration. Knowing the cocktail that someone will enjoy, whether or not they’ll admit it, is one thing. Knowing the specific concoction, they need right then and there? That, biker boy, is the magic of Jimmy.”
“Fair enough,” Clutch said and took a sip. “It’s sweet as shi... sh... sugar,” he said.
“You need more
sweetness in your life, Clutch,” Jimmy said, smiling at me. “That’s why we like her around. But don’t worry, the tequila and other secret ingredients, will take care of your inner savage beast.”
“And mine?” I asked.
“That one, my dear, is called ‘Kermit’s Bad Day.’”
I dragged my straw through the thick green sludge and said, “I think I can see why. What’s in it?”
“That, Jimmy’s going to keep a secret for now, but he will say, be careful. It may not taste like it, but those things pack a punch.”
I took a sip and decided that this was among one of the most horrific thing’s I’d ever had in my mouth and that includes Matt Gilbert’s tongue in the eighth grade. The overwhelming flavor of lawn clippings masked any and all traces of alcohol, which was a real shame.
“Well?” Jimmy asked, his eyebrows perched high above the top rim of his glasses.
“It’s very... chunky,” I said, forcing a smile.
“Remember, my Queen, Jimmy always knows what you need, so you drink all of that, you hear?”
I smiled and nodded, and Jimmy floated to the serving cart on the opposite side of the table which held what I assumed was tonight’s dinner. Jimmy looked at me, then my glass, then back to me.
I took the hint, and another full swig of the slimy, green goop. I strained every taste bud to its very limit trying to detect a hint of any alcoholic spirit in hopes that might somehow quell the putrid taste of swamp water. Kermit didn’t just have a bad day, he’d contracted the swine flu and shit himself to death on his fucking lily pad.
“Good girl,” Jimmy said as a small wave of nausea hit me and images of the aftermath of Earl’s seven fish sandwich dinner flashed through my mind. Jimmy then lifted the dome on the tray to reveal an entire fish, head, tail, cloudy eyeballs, and all.
The confessional was in serious jeopardy of being violently redecorated in Kermit green.
“Excuse me,” I said and ran for the door, which Jimmy raced to swing open for me as I made my frenzied exodus.
Clutch (Burning Saints MC) Page 11
