Amber sat quietly in the corner of the Lizard Lounge in Tooten, Tennessee, one hot summer night not long ago. A few weeks earlier I had responded to an ad for a “space-aged” coat-hanger salesman. According to the Internet ad, these hangers were to revolutionize the way women hung their clothes. I was going to retire a wealthy man.

I stopped in Tooten, a tiny town of approximately 3,000, on my way to San Francisco. I’d heard that both women and men in San Francisco were open to new experiences. These hangers were certain to be a hit.

I approached Amber that night looking for a little companionship. She appeared genuinely lost and lonely. As puffs of blue smoke danced about her head, I asked Amber if I could join her for a drink. With a cigarette in one hand, a can of beer in the other, she nodded for me to sit down. I, in turn, motioned to the burly bartender.

“What the hell do you want?” he shouted, swinging a wet bar towel over his shoulder.

I raised two fingers signaling for two drinks to be brought to the table.

“Peace this!” the bartender bawled, flipping me a single as he shifted his cigar in his mouth.

Somewhat embarrassed, I apologized to the woman. “I’ll be right back,” I said. Excusing myself from the table, I walked across the room to confront the bartender.

“I’m in town on business and would like to buy the lady a drink,” I said politely.

“Lady? Amber?” A laugh emanated from his oversized gut like a roll of thunder.

“Mister Fancy-pants, if you knew what was good for you, you’d run and never look back.”

“Two beers, please,” I repeated, shrugging off his comments. (What I didn’t understand was that he was trying to tell me to run and never look back.)

Still laughing, he blew a putrid puff of cigar smoke in my face as he slid the two beers across the bar. “They’re on the house,” he proclaimed. “The embalmer will appreciate me sending him business.”

Shooting him a wary eye, I returned to the table and sat down beside Amber.

“So, do you live around here?” I asked, soon realizing the stupidity of the question.
Amber picked up her cigarette from the ashtray and drew hard. “No, I live in Kansas,” she said, exhaling, while at the same time sipping her beer.

I was just about to apologize for my ignorance when a hand, the size of a large tortilla, folded itself around my neck. I felt like a turkey wrap. Suffice it to say that if you’ve never met a bad-ass biker from Tooten, Tennessee, pray you never do.

As I picked pieces of table paint from my teeth, Amber took another sip of her beer and tried to explain to the biker that I was a harmless salesman passing through town.
“Ya want what he’s sellin’?” Mongol asked, reaffirming his grip on my neck.

“No,” she replied flatly.

The bartender stood with the door opened wide as the last thing the biker saw was the soles of my Hush Puppies. As I picked pieces of porch paint from my teeth, I heard the rumble of a dozen more bikes on the horizon. Never one to let chivalrous behavior be the gateway to insanity, Tooten was soon in my tail lights.

Jenny sat quietly in the corner of the Aardvark Bar & Grill in Analthy, Arkansas, one hot summer night not long after I left Tennessee . . .

Italian Burgers
1 lb. ground beef
1 can tomato soup
1/3 cup water
Mozzarella cheese

Form ground beef into six patties and place in a large casserole dish. Combine soup and water and pour over patties. Top with cheese and bake at 400 degrees for about twenty minutes. Serve over pasta or on a roll. These are deceptively delicious!

You can contact Terry Miller at cookingbachelorstyle@mountainhomemag.com. His Web site is cookingbachelorstyle.wordpress.com.