Ken Hada is a fourth generation Oklahoman, descendant of Danish and Hungarian immigrants: Gypsy poets, barn dance aficionados, art lovers, amateur philosophers, wheat farmers, preachers, teachers and common-sense craftsmen.

“These poems, acting as spare parts themselves, go into the making of one smooth-running, powerful engine.”

 - Diane Glancy

Author of Pushing the Bear

Wantons | by Kendall Wallace

Only in a bar beside an airport landing strip would you find a middle aged, overweight, black mama singing “I’ve got big balls” in front of a crowd of mullets, rodeo buckles and lesbians. Less than a year ago the place was a hangout for gangs and hookers. Then, Wantons evolved to become an unofficial hangout for big gay women and people too nervous to sing before a civilized audience. Wantons was the kind of place where people who lived online, in their role playing game world, finally met after months of text flirting and IM’ing. There were always empty seats along the wood paneled walls, even on Friday nights when I came around to play bouncer. Bouncers, real bouncers with biceps and cool sideburns, were for techno beating night clubs, not karaoke bars. But the city of Portland made Wanda, the owner, hire security to keep the hookers and hoodlums out.

I would radio 10-8 to a roaming patrol car, rent-a-cop code to clock on duty. Wanda, or Won-naw as she pronounced in her Chinese accent, would say hello and go to the basement to count money and make food and liquor orders. I would wave to the rocker haired K.J., or Karaoke Jockey, as Nina the barmaid who always wore sleeveless flannel shirts, would bring me some water. My wooden podium faced a heavy front door and was covered like a hippie guitar case with radio station stickers of four consonants beginning with K’s and W’s, band names, and other stickers warning, “We reserve the right to refuse service to anyone” and “ID required for everyone.” These service policies were the city’s solution to Wantons gang problem. Portland mandated identification of every single patron, any age, and a written record of their age and name.  

 Imagine the love that a sixty year old trucker reciprocates when asking for his ID. This was my job. Cops giving tickets and annoying airline attendants are the only people who ask for ID when you are sixty, and nothing made me more nauseated than to be put in the same category as them. Even still, recording the identifications of burly lesbians, tough truckers, and brown suited Vietnam Vets was hardly the worst part of working security for Wantons.

 Karaoke is the opposite of Alcoholics Anonymous. Not because people drink at karaoke bars, but because if you're not drinking when someone starts singing “You make me feel like a natural woman,” you will be soon. Wantons kept over 3000 songs ready, yet every night there was zero variation in the play-list of songs sung. They listed everything from the millions one hit wonders, to Prince and Stevie Wonder, Elvis and Brittany Spears. Here is a brief list of songs sang every night at least once at Wantons and possibly every Karaoke bar in America.

“I Will Survive,” Gloria Gaynor

“Like A Virgin,” Madonna

“My Heart Will Go On,” Celine Dion

 “Hotel California,” The Eagles

“I Like Big Butts.” Sir Mix-A-Lot

Every Friday night I wanted to make the three hour drive to Seattle where VH1 said Sir Mix-A-Lot lived off his royalties, and then punch him in the face for creating this Karaoke monster.

 After a few weeks I stopped carding the regulars. The regular customers had names deemed regular by society, names that were popular in the 1950’s and nursing homes, like Edna and Barbara. I’d never actually met someone named Clarence or Gus, or even Wanda, before Wantons. The regulars had their regular songs down as perfect as toothless belligerent retirees could. Roy would sing “Just the Two of Us,” and “Grandmas Hands,” by Billy Withers. Edna would sing one Gloria Estefan song, almost well, and then punish everyone with “Living Dead Girl” by Rob Zombie. This rock performance deserves some notice, as I’d seen it at least twenty times.

Edna (I never asked but I assumed) worked over the phone in debt collection, or maybe she drove a school bus. She might have been gay, I never asked that either, but no men could get drunk enough to give her conversation. In her performance she would double fist grab the mike and tilt the stand forward, bend one knee and slam her grey hair exactly as Rob Zombie might have. Her draping T-shirts picturing random NASCAR drivers or pizza delivery commercial slogans couldn’t cover her sweats. Sweat pants are fine when vacuuming, and are still in style at the gym. Wantons was no Ritz Carlton piano lounge, but even in a quirky karaoke bar wearing high heels and sweat pants wasn’t appropriate.

 On a certain Friday my ID list held fifty names, but it didn’t include the regulars or the friends of the K.J. who had come in the back and were still in high school. There were two large tables of husky women that clapped along to everything. Another large table seating a blue collar black family who would gospelize any song. And a few random couples with whom the regulars made unsuccessful attempts to befriend. Edna finished pounding her heels to “Dragula,” when one more group gave me their licenses.

“There’s no way you’re forty-two.” I said, while thinking, “She looks at least sixty-two.”

“Oh, aren’t you a cutie?” She smiled, surprising me with only one vacancy between her yellow grin, “I bet you tell all em’ girls the same.”  

 I did.

 Her license read Rhonda. Rhonda was with Earl, who was a stout black man with parched skin and dark moles following his collar. Behind Earl and Rhonda was Whitney, who was pastier than Rhonda and wore another pound of makeup. Both of the women looked spray painted with red and purple over a primer that flaked on their cheeks like milk dried on cement. They howled and clapped at Edna’s big finishing scream and found a place between the lesbians and nervous internet couples.

Wanda, the owner, was glad to invite the queer kind of crowd that Wantons entertained. In her whisper voice she would mention that black people didn’t tip, always started fights, and all of them were in gangs. She even told me that she had reduced the size of the dance floor to keep the “hip-hop” crowd out. I didn’t say anything, I guess I was weak and should have stood up for African Americans, wore an Obama-hope button. But I didn’t. She insisted the city would shut down her bar if the police had to come by more than once a month.

The night was going as usual, someone sang “Bohemian Rhapsody” by Queen, and everyone clapped even though our ears were bleeding. A woman with a shoulder padded suit coat sang, “Like a Virgin” in such a shy voice that her girlfriend had to come up and sing with her. The second woman’s protective act was sweet and everyone awed and called for a tender kiss. After that, Earl decided it was time to go. I wasn’t paying him any special attention but waved to him as he stormed out.

Someone butchered a Johnny Cash song, then Roy the regular shook the year round Christmas lights loose with “Billie Jean.” After this, Earl reappeared, and I recognized that he had been in earlier so didn’t bother for any ID. Someone started Sublimes “Santaria,” as Earl pulled his ageing white friend Whitney out the door. It was awkward, and I noted she didn’t want to leave. For some reason people can’t remember more than the chorus to “Santaria” and their voices fade silently toward the end. In that dull moment of the song, Earl walked by me again. He didn’t look my way and went straight for Rhonda.

She finished off her drink and slammed an empty glass on my podium with a wink as Earl yanked and tugged her out the heavy slow closing door. I was chuckling at the wink of a worn woman when the corner of my eye spotted Earl’s fist landing square on Rhonda’s mouth.

“Jump,” He yelled and I paused in disbelief, “when I say jump, bitch!”

The door separated us for a moment. I pressed slow and careful not to hit her if she were still on the ground.

 “Backup to Wantons!” I called on my radio as Earl was dragging Rhonda by one arm across the pavement toward a large van.

“What do you want?” Earl had seen me and wasn’t afraid to yell, “Get back inside kid!”

Apparently, a five foot six inch white boy rent-a-cop isn’t threatening to a crusty guy who punches women and drives an A-team van. Whitney, the other woman, was sitting in the front seat of the Ford Econoline holding her eye, and Earl didn’t stop pulling with my approach. Rhonda’s mouth was black with blood that she spit on her glittered chest saying,

“Help, fuck, help me please!”

 I lunged toward Earl, and while trying not to step on Rhonda, I dug my fist into his shoulder. I’d hit a total of two punching bags and zero humans in my entire life, so it wasn’t shocking when he didn’t move. Earls’ nostrils flared as my girlish punch loosened his grip on Rhonda’s arm and pushed me backwards. Rhonda screamed again as I crushed her hand and fell over her. It was a puzzling moment of a thousand thoughts I can’t recall—anger, shock, and embarrassment. By the time I was on my feet again Earl was in his van with Whitney yelling at him to hurry, leaving Rhonda with me.

 His license plate had an orange between numbers and letters. I wrote them on my hand as he wheeled over the curb as fast as his rusty van could. Rhonda was inimical, crying death on “that bastard,” and flinging blood with her hatred. I sat her at the bar and Nina scooped her some ice while I checked my radio. Rhonda spilled the event to Nina, already embellishing it, as a voice on my radio confirmed help was on the way.  

 Listening to a story that had just happened, and hearing it told with such exaggerations, was incredible. Rhonda’s lip was fat and her makeup was smeared like a circus clowns’ in the rain. According to her version, she was hit five times and kicked several after I had failed to help. She mentioned not having a ride home or money for a taxi, and Nina lost interest, having to run to the kitchen.

 An obnoxious rendition of Brittany Spears’ “Toxic” was being shouted when my boss showed up. Armed, badged, and bald, he looked more like a cop than the actual policeman who came later. I gave him the Florida license plate number and pointed him to Rhonda. At the sight of a false policeman her story included a gun and the theft of her wallet. He nodded sympathy and called the real police,

“We’ve got a 240 at W3” His use of codes and acronyms made him feel more like a cop.

The real police came within minutes and ignored him. Once again Rhonda stretched the truth for the new officer as my boss criticized me for not tackling the “perp.”

 “Um, really?”

“Yes, it’s your job to make sure these people don’t get away. You should have apprehended the offender before he fled the premises.” He was steaming over the real cop’s cold shoulder and turned to go outside before I could think of a good reason for not knowing how to punch someone.

 The officer kept nodding his head at Rhonda, looking at her but thinking about something else, maybe about the man singing Elton John in the background. He finished with Rhonda, nodded to me and left with no intention of helping her. Wanda had been silent, waiting for him to leave and jerked my arm when the door was closed.

“Why you call police? Now we lose liquor license!”

 “Well, a woman got punched in the face, that’s kind of a crime.”

Her voice lowered and she kept her back to Rhonda, “He was black man, wasn’t he?”

I sighed. I wanted to lie and say white or even better, Chinese. But I didn’t, I nodded and she shook her head with racist thoughts. Then, being helpful, Nina came over while Rhonda went to the bathroom to fix her face.

“She’s a hooker, that black guy was her pimp.” Nina was almost happy to break the news to us, and even though I had suspected it— I didn't want to hear it.

 “Oh good! We call police for hooker! I lose my bar for hooker!”

It was too much for me; hookers, Sir Mix-A-Lot, my boss, and a prejudiced Chinese woman, all yelling at me. I went outside and paced the parking lot, punching my palms and repeating Wanda’s words with disgust. Edna came out. She stood near me in her long T-shirt, high heels, and sweat pants. She lit one of those thin cigarettes that I imagined French women smoked while talking about art and museums.

 “Was that lady a whore?” Even with the fancy cigarettes Edna was as elegant as a plumber.

 “He hit her in the face. What was I supposed to do?”

Edna snorted and looked away for a moment. She turned back to me and said,

“It doesn't matter what you did, or should have done.” She sucked down on her long cigarette and breathed smoke, “Can’t help some people, can’t help most people.”

She started walking home and I told her she shouldn’t walk alone, that it wasn’t safe. She laughed and shouted back,

“Can’t help me neither I guess.”

 I went back inside. A Mexican lady was murdering “Smells Like Teen Spirit,” by Nirvana. I took a deep breath, stood at my post and tried not to mind.