The real life adventures of Erin O'Brien, girl writer, vol. one

Erin sits at the bar sipping a Bud Light, a copy of her novel at her elbow. The establishment is 100 percent biker and she is confident that the cover of her book will garner attention here. Surely, someone in this studded and tattoed mob will be interested in a novel upon which there is a picture of a semi nude woman and a motorcycle. And she intends to invite any and all attention and talk to anyone about anything in hopes of piquing his or her curiosity about herself and her writing.

She has chosen a strategic seat by the end of the bar where people crowd to order drinks. And, much to the irritation of persons behind whomever Erin is speaking to, her ploy works and she has a steady stream of persons approaching her.

They ask about her book and many of them take one of the little cards she has printed with the book's cover and information about her website. She gets a few pick-up offers, which she delicately declines. She meets a number of women motorcyclists. She chats and listens intently and tries to be charming. She accepts the drinks that gentlemen offer to buy her when the offer feels genuine and without strings. She purchases a beer for the deejay, who has plugged her presence several times over the course of the evening.

"And stop by the end of the bar and have a drink with local author Erin O'Brien!"

A handful of people ask Erin if she has copies of her book to sell. But our girl can be a real dipshit and therefore, she has none. She advises people to visit her website and that the book is available on Amazon.

Clearly none of this is worthy of a blog entry. Fortunately, however, we're talking about Erin here and this night is not going to transpire without at least one blog-worthy experience.

Enter Chewy.

"What the fuck is this?" the voice booms from Erin's right. She turns from the two leather-clad with whom she had been discussing exactly what sort of men most benefit from the wearing of chaps and nothing else.

And there, holding her book, is Chewy.

"That you?" he asks Erin, indicating the figure on the cover of the book.

"If you want to be me," says our clever Erin, "than it is me." She extends her hand. "I'm Erin O'Brien."

"Chewy," he says, taking her hand. He is hairy and thick and big and loud. Erin estimates him to be between 48 and 52.

"And, actually, I wrote the book," says Erin.

But Chewy has already set the book down, disinterested. He is not entirely disinterested in Erin, however. "So, where's your old man?" he asks.

"At home."

"And he let you come out? By yourself?"

"Yes, he did," responds Erin. "Are you married?"

"Hell no!" booms Chewy with authority. But then almost immediately, his face and shoulders collapse into an expression of failure. "Just got dumped."

Predictably, this disclosure turns our sappy girl writer into a sympathetic marshmallow . "I'm very sorry to hear that," she says.

At that, Chewy reinflates with passion. "I showered with that woman. I slept naked in the same bed with that woman. I massaged her back and her feet and her hands. We even baked bread together in the buff!" he says. "And not once did we have sex! Not one time! I respected her." He slugs his beer and slams it back upon the bar so forcefully that a splash of beer erupts from the bottle and lands on Erin's book.

In the space of an instant, Erin goes from anger over the defilement of her property to joy at what she realizes will give her personal reading copy more significance--a smattering of wavy-edged beer-stained pages courtesy of a man named Chewy. After she has processed beer+book, there is the matter of business of what the man said. Because although she is not attracted to him, he is certainly randy and masculine and sexual. What sort of woman would pile into a bed with this sort of man without clothing or carnal intent? Who would do that? "Wow," she says. "How long did you date her?"

"TWO FUCKING MONTHS!" responds Chewy. "Dinners, dates. Rode her to Niagara Falls. Fixed her goddamn Honda. And you know what I say?" Breathing heavily, he awaits Erin's response.

"Um," Erin's eyes shift left than right. "No. No I don't," she says.

"It aint worth it! What do I care? SHE CAN HAVE HER GODDAMN PUSSY!"

An uncomfortable beat passes. "Yes she can," says Erin finally.

"You take a look at this," says Chewy, who then grasps either side of his country western style shirt and tears open the pearly snaps to reveal a hirsute barrel chest, upon which snakes a glossy scar. He thumps the scar vigorously. "You have any idea what that is?" he asks, challenging our unlikely heroine.

"Well, although I am not a medical technician," says Erin, "my guess is the scar is associated with some sort of cardio thoracic surgery."

"YOU'RE GODDAMN RIGHT!" says Chewy. "And if you think I'm going to let some goddamn broad and her goddamn pussy break my goddamn heart, there ain't no goddamn way! I already had the son-of-a-bitch cracked open once!" He pauses then adds, "FUCK HER!"

To this Erin has no response and says simply, "I hear you, man."

Chewy drains the rest of his beer. "Barkeep!" he yells across the bar, "Beers all the way around!"

And a long neck Bud is delivered unto Erin and of it she doth drink with grateful lips.