“Where’s your wine?” asked the Architect when I walked out onto the balcony to sit with him while he had his morning smoke in the morning sun. It was 9:06 AM. “I want my lawyer back. Go get your wine!” he instructed in his best Johnny Depp impression from the movie Fear and Loathing Las Vegas. That was one of the few things that we shared, that movie, and I was apparently Dr. Gonzo and he was Raoul Duke. He had some weird obsession with that movie, and I played along. He sat out on the patio overlooking old town in the hot morning sun. He sat in one of the folding blue camping chairs with a fly swatter in one hand and a cigarette in the other. It wasn’t just a regular cigarette though. It had his Fear and Loathing cigarette holder that I sent to him attached to the filter of his Camel cigarette. His look was topped off with turquoise square sunglasses and a robe from the Mirage in Las Vegas that I had brought for him.

“Well, where’s your wine?” He asked again. “It’s inside” I said, while I paused and pondered whether I should go back inside to get it. “Let’s get this party started!” he declared enthusiastically. I didn’t say anything, and I walked back into his apartment. In the kitchen I poured two tiny stainless steel teacups that we used for wine ‘glasses’ and I walked back out. I passed him a fresh cigarette before I set his wine on the tiny table that separated his two blue camping chairs. “Thanks Sweetie” he said kindly. I sat down with my wine in hand, and I looked up at the sun. “There isn’t a cloud in the sky. It’s goddamn hot!” I complained. “Goddamn bats!” he shouted, and, just like in the movie he waved his fly swatter around while he sat there pretending to fight off the imaginary bats in the sky. At least he wasn’t boring, I thought as I sat there watching him engage in his own little game.

While I sat there squinting through the morning sun, I looked around at my surroundings. I took a sip of my wine, and I thought about what time it was and how we were, I was, drinking wine in the morning. “Just call me drunky smurf,” I said. He laughed, “That’s a good one!!!! You are drunky smurf! I’m going to use that one.” He couldn’t stop laughing. He leaned over and raised the tiny steel teacup and said cheers. “You hungry?” he asked. “Yeah, I could eat. We should eat. Wait. When was the last time we ate?” I sort of asked him, but really I was asking myself aloud. “You ready?” He asked me, while he was still in his robe with his junk hanging out. I was dressed already. That particular morning I put on my red t-shirt that said Canada and a dirty pair of jeans. It was Canada day after all, a national holiday in my home country.

He walked up to his bedroom, and he was dressed in an instant. He had a special ability to throw clothes on and look like he had actually planned it out. He always looked good with whatever he decided to throw on. Or, maybe he just looked good to me. Whatever the case, soon after he was dressed, we found ourselves standing in the elevator. He pushed the button for the basement. “Going down” the voice in the elevator said.

I looked at him inquisitively after I saw which button he pressed, but he didn’t respond until the doors opened and let us out into the basement. “Let’s cut through the parking garage. The place I want to go for breakfast is closer this way,” he said out loud, as he walked towards the gate that sealed the parking garage without turning around to look at me. I don’t know what came over me, but I just followed him towards the gate, about ten paces behind. I’m not sure if I was too tired to keep up, or I was just feeling submissive and let him lead. Either way, after the gate opened, we turned left and walked down the alley in silence.

I didn’t know where we were going. I had always stayed on the main street of old town. The alley way was narrow. There was only enough room for one car. It reminded me of being in England. It looked like the back street that I would walk down from my restaurant to go to Starbucks each morning. The streets in that alley in old town weren’t exactly made of cobblestone, but they resembled it. They were brick streets. Rain gutters were everywhere. They said that the city used to be notorious for flooding.

We continued to walk for about a block and a half until we saw an A frame sign. It was both ominous and discrete. It was white with red lettering on it. It said ‘The Back Door’ in red block letters. A few feet away from the sign there stood a tall tanned man with gray hair. He wore a blue shirt, and he had his glasses folded into the collar of it. He was a unique looking man, his hair almost covered his ears and his face was flat. He was a white guy, but it didn’t look as though he belonged. There was something unique about the way he looked and carried himself. Anyway, he stood there smoking a cigarette, oblivious to our approach.

I still didn’t know where we were, or what the ‘Back Door’ was. The Architect, in the mean time, approached the man in the blue shirt. The man was receptive to the Architect and then acknowledged his presence. I stood behind him, once again passive and submissive while they began to engage in small talk. I could hear that the man in the blue shirt had an accent, but I wasn’t quite interested in that. At least not yet. I took the time to look around at my surroundings.

I soon realized that we were behind the main street of old town. There was a wall that was about eight feet high made out of bricks. Tree branches and leaves over hung the brick wall and vines encapsulated an iron gate that appeared to be an entrance to some place. I walked away from the Architect and the man in the blue shirt to investigate. Upon further investigation, I realized that I was behind a place that I had been before. On the wall, there was a discrete sign that said ‘Firehouse’. I was there on my first trip to old town, before I really knew the Architect, with two guys who I had met on the plane from Iran. I acted as their tour guide that time. It was a place, I found out, where many went to have their weddings, and that back gate led to the courtyard where they were held.

I looked around further and there was another sign. It simply said, ‘1895’. I marveled at the history that surrounded me, but then I got bored. I walked back over to where the Architect and the guy in the blue shirt stood. The two of them were still smoking and talking to one another about how to clean the filter on the Architect’s cigarette.

I touched the Architect’s arm, to let him know that I acknowledged that he needed his own time to engage in that conversation, and in silence, I walked through the ominous entrance. 

The entrance looked like I was walking into a jail cell. But, unlike a jail cell, the iron bar doors were open and people were meant to walk in voluntarily. Once I was inside, it was equally creepy. It was dark in there. It reminded me of the bar in the movie ‘From Dusk Till Dawn.’

I looked around. It was dark, and my opinion of the bar changed. Instead of reminding me of the bar from Dusk Till Dawn, it took me back to England. It was a dingy place. There was carpet on the floors, and the smell of stale beer filled the air. There was a white pillar in the center of the place that seemed to be holding up the ceiling. I walked towards the bar, and I sat down. There was an older blonde lady who was behind the bar. You could tell that she had experienced her share of hardships in life. “What can I get you started with sweetheart?” she asked while she continued to open her bar. I ordered two waters. I was the only one in the bar, and it seemed weird to me. I was slightly uncomfortable, considering that I had quickly realized that it wasn’t a bar that tourists went to, but it was frequented by locals, and I wasn’t a local. On my uncomfortable perch, I turned around and looked towards the open door for the Architect. There he was. He was peering into the open door to see where I was. His peering in comforted me, and I began to feel slightly at ease.

He walked in and sat next to me at the bar just after he had finished his cigarette. I felt so much better having him next to me. Next, the guy with the blue shirt came in. It turned out that he was the actual bartender. “What do you want to drink?” He asked us while he stood directly in front of us.

“Can we order breakfast first?” The Architect asked. The bartender didn’t say anything. He just stood there waiting for the Architect to make his order, but got bored while we looked at the menus, so he walked away. The Architect looked over at me after the bartender walked away and said, “Let’s order something and have three bites of it and we’ll be full. The problem is that he will probably be back there putting his best effort into our meals, and we’ll only have a few bites.” Apparently the bartender wasn’t just a bartender, but also the cook that morning. “I know, I can’t eat that much. Whenever I’m here I always seem to lose weight” I told him. “That’s because all we do is drink,” said the Architect. The bartender came back and just stood there looking at us again, waiting for us to order something more than water.

“Can you serve alcohol yet?” The Architect asked. Little did I know, that question would set the tone for the day. “Well, yes” was what the bartender said in his indistinctive accent. “Okay, I’ll have a club sandwich with potato salad and a White Russian. Mother’s milk,” ordered the Architect, and then he looked over to me to indicate that it was my turn. “Umm…I’ll have the bacon and eggs. Eggs over easy, dry toast…” I paused to contemplate whether I wanted to join the Architect in his early morning drinking binge some more. “…and I’ll have a White Russian too, but can I have it with milk, not cream?” “Yes,” the bartender assured.

“You ordered a Caucasian,” I said after the bartender walked away from us to make our drinks. “No, it’s called mother’s milk,” he corrected. I didn’t bother to ask why he called it that because I didn’t care to pry into anyone’s business. I figured that if he wanted to tell me why he called them that, that he would tell me. I called them Caucasians because of hearing it in the movie the Big Lebowski. I thought it was funny.

Soon after a few drinks, things began to get lively. After the bartender spoke to us a few times, and after I had a ‘Caucasian’ or two in me, I asked, “Where is your accent from?” “It is from France,” he answered. “So you can speak French?” I asked. What a stupid question that was in hindsight. He was from France. Of course he spoke French. “Ou vien tu?” I asked him in my best version of French. I was asking him which part of France he was from. He answered me back in French, but his advanced level of French and accent far exceeded my language skill. I just nodded as though I knew what he had said.

We spoke, well, he spoke French to me for as long as we were there when we were making fun of the other people in the bar. He translated it back to them, so to include them though. I was having fun practicing my French. His English was good though, he had clearly been in this country for many years. “I have been married twice, but then, I thought why am I doing this. It’s a good ocean with a lot of fish,” he said and laughed while he stood behind the very dim lit bar. Everyone laughed. We didn’t expect something like that to come from him. The Architect especially enjoyed it and shouted, “That’s my new Lawyer!” while pointing to him laughing. Nobody in the bar got the reference, except me. That was just the beginning or the day.

While we were getting drunk with the French bartender, the Architect had divulged to him that we were supposed to go to Napa Valley that afternoon. The old French bartender warned him, “That’s one thing I don’t do, ride with a chick that can kick my ass.” Apparently, he had seen and dissected the type of relationship that we had. The Architect had all of the money, but I had the unique ability to put him in his place and make decisions.

During our stay at the Back Door, a few other people had finally came in. One was the owner, and the other was a bald, short, Hispanic man. He sat at the end of the bar in what I could only assume was his regular seat. At the end of the bar, he wasn’t interacting with our banter with the bartender. Instead, he was looking down at his phone. “Hey, stop Facebooking over there!” I shouted sarcastically. He looked up from his phone and said, “I just signed up. I’m trying to figure out how to post something.” That line, to us at the time, seemed hilarious. The Architect was already knee deep into both a bottle of Kaluha and Vodka, so he laughed especially hard, which made us all laugh even harder. I was no saint though. I was keeping up with him, drink for drink, but the effects of the alcohol seemed to be overpowering him differently than they were affecting me.

It was not even 11:00 in the morning yet and things were getting out of control. “We’re supposed to go to Napa later,” I told the bartender again as he put another ‘Mother’s Milk’ in front of us. “Well...” the guy at the end of the bar said, who was now paying attention to us, “…you guys are going to need a gnap,” and he laughed. I assumed that it was an abbreviation for a good nap. Whatever he meant, we thought that was hilarious too, and everyone laughed. 

 The Architect was animated, and he made another reference to the bartender being his new lawyer again. “Hey! I’m your lawyer!” I said as I shoved him nearly knocking his unbalanced self off of the bar stool while we both laughed. “You’re on paid leave for four hours, so he’s my lawyer until then!” He laughed at his own joke. Everyone laughed. And in the middle of it all, I felt comfortable and like I had found something more than that Architect. I was on the stool next to him, and he had his legs resting on me at the bar.

The banter continued and so did the one liners from the bartender. “It’s not over until the casket closes…” the bartender said. The guy at the end of the bar got involved, “It ain’t over until the fat lady sings!” The bartender looked over at him and said, “The fat ladies are singing everywhere, and I don’t be there!” And, of course we all laughed more. “Hey it’s all a gamble,” I said. And then, words of wisdom came from the end of the bar. The Hispanic man said something that I still wonder about. It was the strangest oxymoron that I’d ever heard. Yet, it seemed to make sense. He said, “A good gambler never wins.” We all paused to contemplate what he said and we went silent.

We sat in that dark bar for just over three hours. And then, finally the Architect decided that he had had enough to drink, for the moment. He asked for the bill. While he was waiting for the bill, I got up and walked over to the owner and the Hispanic man at the end of the bar and hugged them. I thanked the owner for her hospitality. In turn she said, “You need to take care of him. He gets out of control. You are good for him. Be safe.” I was conflicted with her statement. She would be the first of many to tell me on that trip that I was good for him and that I was the only one who could keep him in check. It made me wonder what kind of shenanigans he got into when I wasn’t around. I let what she said go, and I went back to the bar stool and grabbed him by the hand and led him out of the door. 

Even though I started off leading him, or at least I thought I was, he pulled me to another direction. He wanted to see what was happening in old town. We made our way around the Firehouse and suddenly we were in the middle of old town. By then, I had no choice but to let him lead. He let go of my hand and walked ahead of me. I didn’t quite know where we were going. I didn’t think he knew where he was going, but I followed anyway. While I followed, I took pictures with my phone like a typical tourist, to remember the moment of course. He continued on, it was as though he was looking for something, someone, but I didn’t ask.

We walked on the boardwalk past the pretentious tourist trap shops, the other tourists, and out of no where, he chose one of the stores to go into. It was a sock store. The walls were covered with socks, there were racks full of socks, and there were even socks at the cashier. “Get whatever you want,” The Architect told me, and we went in different directions in the store looking at whatever stood out to us. I wandered around the store, but then eventually I went back to where he was standing. He has beckoned one of the sales assistants, and when I got there, she was using the long poles to get a pair of socks from one of the higher racks. “Well, did you find anything?” The Architect asked. “No,” I said dryly. I was bored, but he was having a good time. It was becoming a theme of ours. He was having a great time, while I was in the background waiting to catch him when he fell, both figuratively and literally.

Money was never an obstacle for him, so I decided to indulge. I picked up three pairs of socks. One pair I had intended to send to Flagstaff, and the other two pairs were for me. One pair was of the Canadian Prime Minister Trudeau, and the other pair had something to do with wine. $140.00 later, we walked out of the sock store, with six pairs of socks. That seemed excessive to me, but he didn’t bat an eye. After we left the store, he decided that it was about time that we headed to Napa, so we walked back to his apartment.

On our way, he remembered something. “Oh yeah, we need to put the doors back on the Jeep,” he instructed in a slurred voice. I had never put doors on a Jeep before, and it proved to be comedic. “The doors are upstairs in my bedroom,” he continued. “We’ll have to carry them down. And just as we went upstairs to get the doors, I went into the bathroom first, and that was when I noticed it.

Going to back to California on that trip was a gamble. I always thought that I was a good gambler, but in the bathroom, in plain sight on the shelf, there was eye cream and raspberry hand sanitizer. My mom was right. He did have a different jockey. But, what could I say? I lived two states away, and I only showed up every month or so. I had to suck it up and when I came out of the bathroom, I walked upstairs into his room and helped him carry the Jeep doors downstairs. I did my best to swallow my emotions, and I pretended that I didn’t know what was going on. He was just drunk enough to buy the act. While really, I was devastated. I played the role of a good gambler, but it was clear that I wasn’t going to win. It was just like the guy at the end of the bar said. The drive to Napa Valley would prove to be one of the most interesting road trips ever.

After I had arrived in Old Town, and said goodbye to my Uber driver, Abdul. I got out of the car, grabbed my bags, and walked over to the wall to push the code to get into The Architect’s building. I rolled my suitcase through the foyer over to the elevator, and I pushed the button. The door opened immediately and I heard, “going up,” in a female voice in an English accent. I pushed the button to his floor, and when the door opened it was familiar. I let out a sigh. It was both a sigh of relief and nervousness. I never knew what it would be like when I saw him each time. I walked over to his apartment door, opened it, and I walked in. “Hello?” I asked. “Hellooooo,” he mimicked back from upstairs. He had gotten home early from work, yet he didn’t come to pick me up. I didn’t bother to think further about it. I walked up to see him. I hadn’t seen him for nearly two months. I missed him, but I could never bring myself to exactly tell him that. Occasionally I could text those three words to him, but it was rare and usually wine induced. He was the same way. I’d only get the ‘I miss you’ texts occasionally, late at night after he’d been drinking. We didn’t say anything to one another, nor did he get off of his bed to even hug me when I walked upstairs into his room. It didn’t bother me though, because that was just how we were. We clearly had affection for one another, but we were both emotionally closed off from previous relationships that had damaged us. I simply plopped down on his bed and laid next to him. He just nuzzled his face into the nook of my left shoulder, and we just remained still in the moment.

Not long after, The Architect and I went out and had a few drinks, had something to eat, said hello to some of our friends, and then we went back to his place. Everything was just within walking distance. It was a part of what made me fall in love with the Old Town, that, and everyone was always so welcoming. We went back upstairs to ‘nap,’ and in the middle of our ‘nap’ my phone rang. I usually had it on silent, but for one reason or another, that night it wasn’t. He stopped in the middle and gave it some thought. “I’ll just leave it,” I whispered to him. He kept going and then there was more noise that came from my phone. It was a voicemail followed by a text message. After the text message came through, he threw himself next to me on the bed, frustrated and silent. “I better go check,” I said apologetically. I put some clothes on and walked downstairs to where my phone was plugged in, and I picked it up. The number that called had a New Mexico area code, and I didn’t recognize the number apart from that. I looked at the voicemail. I didn’t bother to listen to it though. I looked down at my phone, and I read the transcription instead.

Transcription Beta

“Hi this message is for Margaret please

department I need you to call me back”

It didn’t make sense, so I decided to listen to it, “Hi this message is for Margaret. My name is Bruce. I’m from the Albuquerque Police department. I need you to call me back as soon as possible. You can reach me at….” He said his name again before he hung up, “…this is Bruce from the Albuquerque Police Department.” I stood there, slightly stunned. Then, I swiped over to another screen to see who was texting me.

Margaret, this is Bruce with the

Albuquerque police department. Are you

able to speak with me?

“Fuck!” I said loudly. “What’s wrong?” The Architect asked from upstairs. “The cops are calling me from home. I don’t know what they want,” I said in a slightly panicked voice. He didn’t say anything back. “I’m going to have to call them,” I declared. I couldn’t imagine what was happening, and I couldn’t figure out why they were calling me and had my phone number.

I hit the call back button while I stood there in his open living room. I stared at the wall as the phone began to ring. I was having a mini panic attack, and meanwhile, The Architect was upstairs just laying there. He didn’t bother to come down to try to console me. “This is Bruce,”a voice came through my phone. “Hi this is Margaret returning your call,” I said, trying to sound confident. “This is officer Bruce…” he introduced himself again, and then, he got straight to the point. “When is the last time you saw Juan?” He said a name that I didn’t quite recognize. “Who?” I asked. He said it again, sternly the second time. I still stood there puzzled. His voice came shooting back to me, “The guy who used to live upstairs, above you for a few years in your apartment complex.” “Oh, I called him Gus, short for guy upstairs,” I said, trying to confirm that we were talking about the same person. I think he thought I was trying to be funny, but I really wasn’t, “Well,” he said somewhat annoyed, “when was the last time you saw this guy that you call Gus?”

I stood there in disbelief, and I paused before I answered, “I haven’t seen or heard from him in about…” I thought about it for a moment, “two months. He came buy looking for money, so I gave him fifteen dollars and a jar of change one morning, and then he left. What is this all about?” I asked. “Ma’am, I can’t disclose this information to you,” he said again sternly. My phone started going off with text messages while I was on the phone with him, but I was too technologically disadvantaged to multitask and check them. “Where are you right now ma’am?” the officer interrupted my thoughts about trying to check my messages. “I’m out of state,” I told him. “Where are you?” he asked again. “I’m in California,” I said to him. “Okay ma’am. Then where is your dog?” he asked. My dog? How did he know about my dog? The situation was getting stranger by the second.

The officer kept talking, and he asked me things that made me wonder how he knew them, “What about your other neighbor? The one that lives behind you, Scott. You both seem to always be together. Where is he? Does he know where the person who you call Gus is?” “Yeah, he knows who Gus is, but we don’t associate with him since he moved out, really. I’ve told you everything that I know officer. Can you tell me what this is all about?” I asked again. “No ma’am, I can’t. Are you sure that is everything you know?” he asked, “Do you know where he may be residing?” “Well,” I paused, “when he left last year, the last I heard was that he was living on 6th street in some trailer park, and when he came over looking for money that day, he said he had moved back to southern New Mexico somewhere. I’m not from New Mexico, so I don’t remember the name of the town.” “Okay ma’am, thank you for your help,” he said concluding the conversation, and he hung up. I was left standing there, dumbfounded and then everything else started to happen. I hung up, and I looked down at my phone to check my texts.

O2: You okay? Cops got the road

blocked before the gym, that’s

near your house.

O2: The SWAT team is there at

your complex

Me: I’m in California

I wanted to say more, but I needed to figure out what was happening. I felt so helpless. There was only one other person that I knew in the complex, so I sent her a text.

Me: Hey

Me: You okay? I’m in California, but,

I heard SWAT is at the complex…

Wifey: Hey!!! Yes.

Wifey: The sniper is right next to

me!!

Wifey: How did you know?

Me: SWAT called me

Wifey: SHUT UP!!! Why?

That was a question that I wanted an answer to, but I couldn’t figure it out. And then more phone calls came in. The first was from the head of security from my campus. Campus was right next door to my complex. “Margaret, are you okay? What’s going on over there?” he asked. I told him what I knew. “There are snipers on my campus and we’re on lock down, and so is your complex,” he said. I told him I’d call him when I knew more, but before I could hang up, another call was coming in. It was my neighbor who I referred to as Gus’s Boyfriend in my phone, but really his name was Scott. He explained the situation, “They think Gus might be trying to hide out at your apartment.” I gave him strict instructions, “Go into my apartment, get my gun and put it some where safe. I don’t want anyone breaking in there and taking it.” “I can’t,” he said, “I can’t get into the apartment complex, nobody can. It’s blocked off. They even told us to find a place to stay for the night. But, I’ll go and get it as soon as I get in,” he said. “They said Gus is a murder suspect, that’s what he’s running,” he continued. I cut him off, “Call me when you get there, I’ll tell you where my gun is, and Scott, be very careful,” I warned before I hung up. Even though I wasn’t there, it was like living in an episode of Cops. SWAT team, snipers, and then I got another text from another security guard from my campus.

Officer: You have a tenant from your

apartments that barricaded himself.

Me: What a mess that is. I’m not

there. I’m in California.

Officer: Yes glad you weren’t in it.

I got off of the phone, and I decided to call the only police officer that I knew to try to find out what was going on. “Hey Margaret, what up?” he answered. “Do you know what is happening at my complex?” I asked without hesitation. I had unplugged my phone by then, and I walked across the living room to sit on one of the two long wooden benches that were new in The Architect’s apartment since I had been there last. “I don’t know what’s going on over there,” he said. “Is it normal for the police to call you on your cell phone and send a text message?” I asked. “Yeah, we do that now. It’s normal,” he told me. After he said that, we hung up, and I just sat there on the bench trying to process what was happening. I was worried, and I was scared. It didn’t matter if it was the cops, SWAT, or anyone else who had called me earlier. What it meant was that someone was watching me, or at least paying attention. Where is your dog? That question would stay with me for the rest of the night.

After I hung up, I just sat there on the bench and stared at the bookshelf against the wall in front of me in silence. I rested my elbows on my knees, and I didn’t move. What could I do? I thought. It all seemed a little bit dodgy. I didn’t think it was professional for the police to send me a text, despite being reassured that it was normal. I began to get upset with myself about disclosing information without getting a badge number or some other confirmation that it was in fact the police who called. I realized that I had offered information about someone who I wasn’t even sure was the same person. I never did know Gus’s last name, let alone his first name. I was worried that there was a mix up. I was worried that it wasn’t the police that I talked to. My mind was spiraling. Meanwhile, The Architect wasn’t even fazed at what was happening in my life, or that I was freaking out. “It’s okay…they call everyone in situations like that,” he said casually, blowing off my off my panic attack from upstairs while he was still in bed. Maybe he was right, but I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

Why were they calling me? I kept asking myself that question over and over. I didn’t have anything to do with Gus since he moved out. I called Scott back, “Did they call you?” “Who?” He asked. “The police. Did you give them my number?” I said in a slight panic. “No, they didn’t call me, and I wouldn’t give them your number. I swear,” he answered. The conversation was brief, but it didn’t comfort me. My mind kept running, and I was trying to figure out how they got my number, so I sent out another text.

Me: Did anyone call you about the SWAT issue?

Wifey: No.

I couldn’t stop thinking about what was happening. I couldn’t stop worrying about why the police had called me. I couldn’t stop wondering if it actually was the police that called me. I couldn’t stop worrying if I’d be implicated in whatever mess was happening at home. I stood up, walked to the counter, and I poured myself a cup of wine, not a glass. There wasn’t anything I could do, but to wait to find out what was going on. I walked upstairs into the bedroom, and I sat on the edge of the bed sipping my wine. In a sense of empathy, or compassion, The Architect sat up from bed and said, “Let’s go back out.” He either wanted to shift my attention away from the turmoil at home, or he was tired of listening to me freak out. Either way, he got dressed, I brushed my hair, and we headed downstairs. We got into the elevator and it said, “Going down,” in it’s English accent. Going down we were, the elevator knew it, but it would take a few days for us to realize it.

That was the first night of my vacation in California. I knew that The Architect wouldn’t be sympathetic to my cause, so I didn’t say anything more about it to him. But, I knew why Gus ran back to his old complex, and I started to piece together why the police called me. He was my neighbor for just over four years, until he got kicked out, and I was the only person left that he knew in the complex. My guess was that he headed for my apartment in the hopes that I would let him in. That night was just the beginning of an explosive 4th of July weekend, and the beginning of what would be one of the strangest, unnerving weeks of my life.

The other day I realized that I may be something I'm not

Yet, I've discovered that I may be a modern day Goldilocks

It isn't with beds, but it is with boys

They seem to be nothing more than live action toys

This one is married, this one is not

This one one is too boring, and this one is a trot

They come and they go

But when will I know

Which one to keep around, and which one should go

All of this huff about boys is making me lazy

This drama and tension is driving me crazy

Little do they know, that once they throw me away

They will miss me, almost within a day

Then it's too late

I've made another date

This one is too angry, this one is too short

Whatever the case, it keeps my relationships curt

I am not really sad

I suppose that I am glad

Let the regular Joe's go

And, wait for the real thing to show

I posted a picture on Facebook. It was the view from my window seat that was just above the wing of my Southwest flight. The caption above it simply said, ‘…well.’ That was all I wrote.

I was going back to California again, for the forth time that year. It was late June and it was hot sitting there in the plane waiting for the sheep to board. I sat there blankly staring at everyone’s faces while they tried to stuff their much oversized carry on bags in the above cabins. I liked to travel, especially in airports. I liked to see who I would meet, and what I could get for free. But, as I sat there, I my mind began to wander, and I questioned why I was on that plane. I knew something didn’t feel right. I wrestled with the idea of cancelling the flight the night before and the morning of, but I didn’t. I started to wonder what I was doing and why, when, my daze was interrupted by a text. I looked down at my phone, and it was from my mother. She had broken my trance.

Mom:      Where r u going??

Me:         …California

Me:          I ’m going to see a man about a horse.

Mom:      Horseshit

Me:         Lol exactly.

Me:          I think he has more than one jockey.

Mom:      Lol

Mom:      Who is this btw??

Me:         The Architect

Mom:       Hee haw..lol

My attention to texting shifted when an older man chose to sit in the aisle seat next to me. It wasn’t long after he sat that we were preparing for take off. I bundled up my black shawl, and I used it as a make shift pillow. I pushed it against the window and l leaned my head against it and I drifted away to earlier that morning…

… “Alright kids, I’ve got a plane to catch…” I said to my class, “…are you guys going to be okay?” I was leaving work early to catch my flight, and my students were in the lab frantically trying to complete the assignment that I gave them. They all shook their heads to silently say yes. “Okay then, I’m trusting you. Don’t let me down. Slide your assignment’s under my office door. I’ll see you guys on Wednesday.” I said to them as I grabbed my things, walked out of the computer lab, and started the half mile walk to my apartment in the dead heat of the New Mexico summer.

I was exhausted from not sleeping the night before. The heat didn’t help. It was hovering around 100 Fahrenheit, and I wasn’t built for that. I walked through one of the dirt trails made by the maintenance guy’s golf cart thingys, through the long asphalt parking lot, across the street, towards the greenhouse and the back entrance. There was a black gate there that was permanently locked, but I was small enough to squeeze through a gap in it. It wasn’t an official trail, but I convinced the grounds keepers from campus to cut down the brush some years ago, once I discovered the gap. They did. I was spoiled.

On the last stretch to my apartment on the frontage road, I looked down at my phone. I sent a text to my neighbor.

Me:                         Come over and help me pack.

Gus’s Boyfriend:      Okay, no problem

Me:                         Just come in, the door will be open.

I had weird flying rituals. One: I could never pack without an audience. Two: I was a nervous flyer, and I always drank a glass of wine before I went to the airport. I had a phobia, not of crashing, but of missing my flight. The wine helped to calm me.

Before he came over I quickly changed from my work clothes into something that was a little more, exciting. I always dressed up when I traveled because it helped me to get things done. I put on a pair of skinny Levi’s jeans and rolled them up. Then I stared into my closet. I didn’t do laundry before the trip, so all of my good clean clothes were packed. And, through the rest of the shirts hanging in my color coordinated closest, a lavender top stood out to me. I hesitated because the last time I wore it was in December when I was meeting a then boyfriends mom for the first time. While at his house, sitting in her living room with the entire family, I could feel her starting at me. She didn’t say anything to me, but then suddenly, she just got up and walked out of the living room leaving us just sitting there, awkwardly. I never saw any of them again after that visit, and nor had I wore that shirt since. That was a fun day. Since then, I had deemed it the back luck shirt. But on the day of my flight, it would be worn out of default. It was the only presentable shirt left hanging there, and it would see the day of light once more.

After I got dressed to my satisfaction, I could hear the door open to my apartment. It was Gus’s Boyfriend. “I’m in the bedroom!” I yelled. “Come tell me if I’m forgetting anything,” I instructed him as he walked into my bedroom and watched me frantically pack while drinking a glass of wine at 10:00 in the morning. Don’t judge. Flying and getting to the airport were stressful ordeals for me. Once I, we, were satisfied with my packing job, I zipped up my suitcase and set it next to the door. “Oh crap. Where’s my airport wine cup? I need my airport wine cup,” I told my neighbor frantically. My wine cup was a plastic cup from the horse track that I had held onto for over five years, it had some weird sentimental value. I reached into another cabinet, pulled out a box of wine and filled my cup half way. “Okay, let’s go.” I said as I grabbed my backpack and wheeled my suitcase out of my apartment door. He took the spare key and locked the door behind us. We packed his car and I pushed him to drive as fast as he could through the interstate traffic while I sipped my wine. We got to the airport in less than 20 minutes, and then the adventure began.

When we got to the airport, I opted to avoid the outdoor check in, and I went inside. Inside I walked through the maze that corralled the line up, and I stood behind two men and a young teenager. The man at the front of the line was carrying a green rifle case with padlocks. The others, just behind him, were and old white man with his Asian grandson. Behind me, stood Hispanic women. We all stood there, impatiently. There was only one check in lady working and there were three people who occupied her time, for at least 20 minutes.

“This is just like Walmart…” I complained to the older man, “…one big line and only one cashier.” He laughed, and I got a reaction from the ladies behind us. “Yeah, really!” one of them said in her Spanish accent and laughed. I stood there, and I listened and observed my surroundings. One might call it being nosy, while I call it being observant. My degree in criminology taught me to always be aware. I heard one of the women behind me say Vegas. Saying the word Vegas was like saying Squirrel for me. “Vegas?” I asked, as I turned around to the ladies. “Who’s going to Vegas? “I am,” said the lady two people behind me, meekly. “Lucky” I said back. I then turned my attention back to the men in front of me. The guy holding the gun case started to complain again, “All of the check in people are busy over there boarding the A-list people, and there isn’t anyone to check us in. There isn’t even anyone in their line now.” “Well…” I told him, “…just go over there and pretend like you didn’t know that it was the A-list group. They’ll check you in.” “That’s a good idea!” he said back. He picked up his gun case and went over. Sure enough, they started to check him in. Why is it that people are so afraid to take chances? I thought. What was the worst that could happen? If she told him no, then he could just come back and stand in line again.

Now, it was only the old guy with his grandson standing in front of me. “You’re up buttercup, front of the line,” I told him. “Buttercup?” he asked while laughing. “Did you just call me buttercup?” I did call him buttercup. That’s what I did. I mean, someone had to lighten the mood. We were all pissed off about the wait. While standing there behind him, almost next to him, I noticed that he had taken out his wallet. He was holding it open, and I saw that he had a military ID. “So, you’re former military?” I asked. He seemed surprised, “Yeah. I’m going to show this card, things usually go faster when I do,” he said. “Oh, I know…I used be in that life, I lived near Fort Campbell,” I told him. Somehow that seemed to make him more comfortable with me. “You know, if you go outside, I think it would be way faster to check you in. I don’t think there’s a line out there,” I advised. He looked out of the doors, but he didn’t budge. I was trying to get myself to the front of the line, but it didn’t work. And then his phone rang. Judging from the conversation, I could tell that it was his wife. “There is a young lady here who just called me buttercup!” he told her…the rest of the conversation I tuned out. I was busy starting at those three people still standing at the counter.

And then, finally, the three people at the check in desk were done. We could overhear them asking the check in lady, “So, where do we go?” The old, now grumpy man in front of me snickered quietly, “It’s over there, to the left. It’s not rocket science!” I laughed. And as the three blind mice who took up so much time at the check in desk walked away, the check in lady flagged the old man and his grandson over to the counter.

The check in lady, was a much older lady who should have probably retired 10 years ago. She had frizzy, short red hair, and she wore her Southwest uniform with pride. It was neatly pressed and buttoned all the way to the top. Her posture at the counter however, indicated that she was tired and probably didn’t want to be there anymore. The old guy and his grandson walked over to her. There was a brief interaction and then they turned around. I could hear her direct them to go to the check in that was outside. As he walked past me I couldn’t help myself and rubbed it in his face, “See...I told ya!” I laughed. “You can only get away with saying that because you called me buttercup!” He complained as he walked outside with his grandson in tow. And then, it was my turn to try to check in.

After I was checked in and made it past security, I was walking through the terminal, and I saw the same old guy with his grandson. That time though, he was standing with two other kids and what I assumed was his wife. “Hey, it’s you again!” I said as I was about to pass by. “Honey, this is my new girlfriend! She’s the one who called me buttercup,” he said while laughing. I paused for a few seconds. I needed to say something, but what? I thought. I touched the older lady’s arm and said, “Oh he’s not telling the truth. I’m not his new girlfriend, but I bet you’re used to that.” It’s a good thing that she had a sense of humor. She said back to me laughing, “Oh I’m used to it.” And I walked towards to my gate, A 11.

As I walked over, I looked for the bar that I always sat in before every flight. It was just ahead of me on the left side of the terminal. I looked down at my phone while I walked hasitly. It was already 11:45 AM, and my flight was due to depart at 12:15PM. I thought about stopping in for a minute, but reluctantly time kept me walking straight past it. While I was walking past it though, curiosity got the best of me, and I looked in to see which bartender was working that day. I had flown so much in the past two years that my bartender knew me by name, but I, however, could never remember her’s. She wasn’t working. Instead, there was a young ethnic looking guy working and only two other young guys sitting at the bar. It wasn’t very appealing to me, so I kept walking towards my gate.

When I approached my gate, I noticed that the plane had just arrived and people were just beginning to getting off of the plane. So, I walked back to the bar. Quickly. I put my backpack on the barstool next to one of the guys sitting there. The bartender came over and asked, “What can I get you ma’am?” Usually I gave people a hard time for calling me ma’am, but I didn’t have any time to banter too much. “I’d like to have an $11.00 glass of your finest cabernet please,” I said light heartedly and I laughed. Airport wine sucked and it was over priced just like everything else. I continued, “And, if you could pour me a good one that would be great. I get a little nervous on the planes” I confessed. The problem was, that I wasn’t nervous about the plane that day. Once he handed me a glass of wine that was almost flush with the top of the wine glass, I took my first gulp and I stood there contemplating what I was doing. Was I flying to check out the city that I thought I might move to? Was I flying to check out the man that was in my life for the past six months? Was I flying for both? Was I wasting my time with one or even both? I entertained all of those questions in that moment.

In the meantime, I tried to distract myself from my internal panic attack. I looked to the man on my left and he looked at me, “So, I’ll ask you the usual question, where are you going?” He went off on the typical blurb. It was something about a visiting new grandson in Oregon. Or may be it was Washington state. I wasn’t really paying attention. I gulped down the horrible glass of wine, and I walked over to my gate just in time to find my boarding position. By then, I was slightly more relaxed but not completely. An old habit of mine was to make sarcastic comments to help calm me down when I was nervous, and so I did. I made comments to the people behind me and in front of me, making them laugh at the little details in our surroundings. They were too trivial, and soon, I had lost their attention, so I looked around and I took in my surroundings. 

To my left, sitting on the blue connected chairs that only airports had was a young guy on the phone complaining about how boring New Mexico was, and how he couldn’t wait to get back to LA. He was my next target. I guessed that he was at least 23. I didn’t care, really. He was the only person in that airport that seemed to at least have a pulse, and he was cute. Then, the announcement came, “Now boarding group A 31 through A 60 for flight 2432 to Phoenix, Arizona.” Just before I was about to walk into the air bridge leading to the plane, the young cute guy hung up his phone and looked up. I looked at him and said “I agree. It’s boring here compared to LA.” He was surprised to have a stranger talk to him. “Yeah this place is boring. There isn’t anything to do,” he replied. I talked to him because I had hoped that he would sit next to me on the plane. I always profiled who I wanted to sit next to me on the plane. I learned early on in my traveling, and usually I was pretty good at it. I once had a flight to Korea where I was stuck listening to some guy sitting next to me telling me how I was making a huge mistake by going there. It was a long 12 hours. 

Anyway, I left the cute guy with that one comment, and I walked away. I thought it would be enough to entice him to find me on the plane. It didn’t work. He walked down the aisle towards the back of the plane and as much as I tried to stick my neck up for him to notice me, he didn’t…

And so, there I was. I had my window seat, but there wasn’t any cute boy sitting next to me, just the old guy in the aisle seat. At least my shawl being on the middle seat had managed to deter both the cute boy and any other passenger from sitting between us.

The flight was rather uneventful, for the most part. After we reached 10,000 feet, and the captain announced that there would be drink service, I decided to stop leaning my head against the window and sat up. I had an expired drink voucher in my ‘wallet’ that I was going to try to use. My ‘wallet’ was a collection of my most important cards, that being, my Gold Tier MLIFE card from the Mirage, my debit card, my MLIFE credit card, a packet of Target grease blotting sheets, and of course my expired drink voucher. I wasn’t sure if it would work, so I had to think of a back up plan to get a drink. I looked over to the aisle seat at the old guy, and I did my best job to profile him.

He had tucked a Science magazine into the pouch of the seat in front of him. He was well into his sixties, and he looked stern. He wore glasses and had some gray stubble beginning to break through from the morning’s shave. Before I sat down earlier, I had warned him, “I’m going to have to get up to pee once we get up there, so I’m just letting you know that you’ll have to get up.” “That’s okay,” he said kindly in an accent that I suspected was English. When I heard him speak, I knew I already had an in. His Science magazine helped as well. It prepped me for the type of conversation that I needed to be able to carry with him.

After I came back from the bathroom, I sat down for a minute and then I began to talk to him,“So, Science magazine huh?” He took the bait. I let him speak for a minute about the most recent discovery in anthropology about human evolution, and then I cut him off, “Let me guess. I’m sure many people get this wrong, but your accent, English?” I was right. He told me some city in England that I didn’t recognize. I didn’t recognize it because I couldn’t hear what he said over the noise that the plane was making as it continued to elevate. I asked him where he got his PhD. He was surprised that I knew. I told him, “Who else would be reading a Science magazine except for a doctor?” I carried on the conversation based on the knowledge that I had from teaching an anthropology class once. By the time the flight attendant was about to reach our row, he had his wallet open with a bunch of drink voucher, and he looked over to me and asked, “Would you like a beverage? I have all of these drink vouchers.” “Wow. You must travel a lot,” I said as I reached over to take the voucher he was offering, “Oh, that’s so kind of you,” I finished. It was almost too easy. Just like that I had a plastic cup of wine.

I wasn’t so successful at the Phoenix airport though. I walked up to my usual bar there. I had and have usual bars all over the place, and again, I looked around for a victim. It was slim pickings. I climbed onto a barstool next to some 40 year old, and I asked him what he was eating. I knew what it was, but he didn’t look very interesting and that was all I could come up with, and I was too lazy to try to think about what else to say. He was eating guacamole and tortilla chips.

While I waited, he told me how he had owned businesses in New Mexico before. I wasn’t the least bit interested, but I listened intently. I even offered witty jokes and comments to his story, but I couldn’t get a glass out of him, nor did he offer to pay my tab. When he was done talking, and I was done pretending to listen, I told him a story about how I had met Morgan Freeman at that very bar one time. My story still didn’t work. I walked out of there to my gate $50.00 poorer than I was when went in there. I was too tired to care though.

It was time to fly again. And this time I had missed my boarding group because I was busying trying to finish my second glass of wine. I cut in front of the B boarding group line and flashed my A boarding group pass, and the attendant waved me through. As I walked onto the plane I scanned for a window seat. The only one left was the back row. I hated not having a window seat, and I hated sitting in the back row, but I had no choice. I took it. The next thing that happened was straight out of the movies. The guy who was on the phone complaining about how boring New Mexico was on my plane again. That time, he walked to the back of the plane and sat right next to me. “Hey you!” I said happily. “I tried to get you to sit next to me on the plane earlier, but I couldn’t get your attention” I had confessed to him. He was receptive to my confession.

I had planned on sleeping on the plane, but I knew it wasn’t going to happen, again. We were flying to Burbank, California. We began to talk, and he told me that he worked for Direct TV and flew all over the country installing satellite dishes and whatnot. He told me that he was dual athlete and excelled at both baseball and football. He told me that he held a 3.9 GPA at the university that he attended in California, but that he was making really good money doing what he did. He told me that he drove a Mercedes and that he worked for his uncle. He said that he would finish school later. I knew more about him in 5 minutes than I wanted to. “How old are you?” I asked. Of course he made me guess. “23?” was my best bet. He started to laugh, “Dude, I’m 19!” Apparently the man sitting next to him in the aisle seat had had enough. “Look I know you’re having fun, but could you stop being so loud!” the man griped. The look on the 19 year old’s face was priceless. I felt a smidge bad for him, but I was glad that the man had gotten him to tone it down.

Even though I was flying to go see the Architect, and I would see him in less than three hours, I wanted the attention, but I wanted him to stop talking, “Hey do you want to watch a movie?” I asked him. “Yeah okay, cool!” He said excitedly. Once we reached 10,000 feet, I pulled out my laptop, plugged in my ear buds, and offered him one. “I know this might be a little weird, but I promise that I don’t have Koodies,” I told him. He didn’t hesitate and he put an ear bud in his right ear. We started to watch The Hangover II.

I sat there with him, and ironically, it was the closest that I felt to someone in a while. It was a different type of attention. It was both genuine and innocent. “Have you seen this movie?” I asked. “No,” he said. “Have you seen the first Hangover movie?” I asked. “No,” he said again. Just then I realized that he must really be 19. Who hadn’t seen the Hangover movies? For me, they were almost my bible. I just left it and kept watching with him as I leaned in onto him. We didn’t get to finish the movie.

The flight attendant came onto the PA system just after the captain. She did the usual announcement, which included telling everyone to put their electronic devices away. I took out my ear bud and my new 19 year old friend did the same and passed over the other ear bud. I closed my laptop, raveled my ear buds, and reached underneath of the seat in front of me to grab my backpack. While I was putting my laptop away he asked, “Do you have Facebook?” We added one another in a fake attempt to be new friends, or at least I thought it was a fake attempt.

Burbank was his last stop, but not mine. When the plane landed, all but five of us deboarded. I felt so close to him, that I wanted to kiss him goodbye, but I didn’t. I just hugged him before he left. I got up and found a better seat that was closer to the front after everyone had left. I wanted a seat that reclined, and I wanted to sleep on that last leg of the flight, I was so tired. I didn’t bother to think about who was going to sit next to me that time. I bundled up my shawl, held it next to the window, leaned on it, I closed my eyes, and I finally had the rest I wanted. I woke up to the wheels of the plane touching the ground.

When we landed, I was just like everyone else, I reached for my phone and turned it on. All of us looked down at our phones and tuned out our surroundings while we waited for the plane to dock. Looking down at a blank screen, I wondered how I would get into Old Town. I had sent a text to the Architect earlier if he could pick me up.

Me:      Can you get me? Or…Uber? (I’m okay either way).

I never wanted to seem needy, that was why I said I was okay either way. I always hated needy people.

Architect Work:      I think I can but not sure yet tough days around here.

Me:      I can arrange another way…and I can just meet you at your place or at the Irish               pub. I know you’re busy.

He couldn’t come to pick me up in the end, and I was okay with that. I was up for the challenge. How was I going to get to old town? I asked myself. I looked over to the left of me at the older man who was sitting two seats over. I knew that it was his last flight, and I knew that he had his own car parked at the airport. I had investigated earlier, just in case I ended up stuck at the airport. That thought had quickly left my head though. I’d already taken my chances getting a ride to the airport from a complete stranger in Las Vegas on my last trip.

I opened my Uber app and went to account settings to check how many credit cards I had on the account. I liked to collect Uber accounts, it allowed for spreading out the free rides. There were three credit cards listed. One was mine, but I decided to use it as a last resort. So, then I sent out a text.

Me:      I don’t have a ride from the airport…may I use your Uber?

Mistress:      Let me check which cc It’s connected to

Mistress:      Do you have the login info

And, the next text that came in held a username and password for his Uber account. Not long after that, I was driving in a Prius towards Old town with my driver, Abdul.

I was only five hours into the trip by the time I landed, and I had befriended an old man and his grandson standing in line, a doctor from England, who I got a free drink from, some 19 year old from Los Angeles, who gave me some much needed attention. Oh, and I had found a free Uber ride from the airport. It seemed that the luck of the infamous lavender shirt was changing, at least for the moment.

I wish that I wasn't raised to despise men.

I wish that thought wasn't instilled into me by the age of ten

Now I struggle to be on my own

But it is a problem that I hone

I wish that I focused on the more positive things in life

Instead of always thinking of the strife

I call my condition Cinderella Syndrome

Because I feel like I'm standing all alone 

I just want someone to rescue me

As lame as that makes me sound to be

One day I hope to be at ease

I just need someone to rescue me please. 

I woke up from an afternoon nap, and I decided to get up and go out. Napping had become common then. With only working seven hours a week, I needed something to fill the hours and that seemed appropriate, along with getting some writing done. I decided to alert someone of my movement, so I sent a text. I was always glued to my stupid phone. It offered some kind of self-affirmation when I got texts back. And, I needed some kind of record of what I had done the day before.

Me:      Okay, going out to cause more trouble.

And, I sent a selfie of my make up job and my freshly straightened hair to accompany my words. I hardly ever took selfies, and I never did smile when I did. I’m not sure why I sent one to him, but I did.

One Man Wolf Pack:      Don’t look so stoic

One Man Wolf Pack:      I have the same problem Hahaha

Not 15 minutes later, I sent another text.

Me:      And, I’m at the track.

Me:      Just call me Mario Andretti…lol

One Man Wolf Pack:      Don’t forget your Marlboro jacket honey haha

Me:      Lol I like driving fast, what can I say?

The track was nearly 20 miles from where I lived. I had made good time.

One Man Wolf Pack:      A lot of Mexicans around? Hahaha

Me:      Yeah, and we’re like a bunch of zombies heading to the mother land…

The parking lot was full over at the track, so everyone parked over at the casino and walked over. We walked over in hoards, in the dead heat of the New Mexican summer. It was fucking hot, and I struggled as I walked over there in five inch heels. I didn’t like the track much, really. So much so, that I called it the armpit of the horse racing world. On my walk over, I got another text.

One Man Wolf Pack:      Mexician Chuck E Cheese haha

He wasn’t far off. The track was a peculiar place. It was filled with mostly men. Okay, mostly Mexican men. But, there were others, and they all seemed to bring their kids. Gambling, it seemed, was a family event. Once I watched one kid lift up another kid to make a bet on the automated machine. I’m not joking. I’ve also seen fathers bring doll houses, and they would set them up on their table to keep their daughter’s busy while they drank and bet the horses. Nobody cared about anything at the track. There was one man who told me some years ago, “There ain’t no shame at the track.” I’ve learned to accept that he was right. There ain’t no shame at the track.

I sent another text.

Me:      I don’t usually come here alone…

Me:      I’m always worried that I’ll get kidnapped and sold into the sex trade, raped,       robbed, or all three. Lol

It was a rough crowd, and although it sometimes frightened me, I knew how to handle it. Another text came in.

One Man Wolf Pack:      I took this picture year’s ago, I posted it on Facebok as the Mexican version of Jersey Shore hahaha

He had taken a picture of people standing outside watching the horses run, with kids among them. It was funny, because it was true.

One Man Wolf Pack:      Be careful please

Me:      It’s so goddamn hot here I’m drinking water. I’ve already been called someone’s Barbie, offered a shot, and a glass of wine.

I was only 10 minutes into the track and I sent another text.

Me:       Oh, and I was asked to stand in the winner’s circle for a picture.

One Man Wolf Pack:      Awesome honey

There wasn’t any air conditioning at the track, and there wasn’t anyone that I was comfortable sitting with there. I wandered around aimlessly with my plastic cup of water. But, I couldn’t find a place to land. I did get offers, but they weren’t anything that I wanted to take. I recognized a few people, and I stopped by to say hi and give them a hug. I didn’t want to be rude, but I didn’t want to seem too nice at the same time. “I’ll get you a glass of wine later,” one of the horse owners said after I hugged him. I saw another regular, and I went over to say hi. Before I was about to leave his table, he tried to keep me around and asked, “You want a shot? I can get you a shot.” I looked down at his table and I saw a stuffed animal and a Barbie doll, “Is that your Barbie?” I asked trying to change the subject, but it didn’t work. The old Mexican man put his arm around my waist and told me as I was trying to leave again, “You are my Barbie.” Hmm…I thought. It was time to leave. I sent another text to update my status.

Me:      I’m going to get my ass to the casino. There’s no damn AC here…

I started the hike over to the casino, in my heels. What a fucking mistake it was to wear them that day. Outside of the track, there were usually little electronic golf carts that took people from one place to another, but I couldn’t find one. I saw two valet guys, “Hey, where are all of the shuttles?” I asked. “One of our shuttles broke down,” he said. “Can one of you piggy back me? I’m not that heavy” I joked. “No ma’am, we need to stay here for the valet, otherwise I would,” one of them said. “It’s okay, I’ll make it,” I laughed as I walked away.

I made it past the valet guys, and I was headed towards the casino when, a familiar face walked around a car in the valet line. I always called him John Goodman. Have you ever seen the movie Flight? Well, he was like John Goodman in that movie, but a Jamaican version. When we saw each other, we stopped in our tracks. Fuck, I thought. I didn’t want to see him. He always asked me out, and he was always a little creepy. “Hey you!” I forced out in a happy tone. He came over and he hugged me. He was smooth, and in the past, I would get him to drive me places. But that, apparently, had given him the wrong idea. “I need to talk to you, seriously…” he said, “…when we gonna hang out?” he asked. I hated those moments, so I just said, “Text me. You have my number. I sent you a text last time, but you didn’t answer,” I told him. It was a lie. I didn’t text him, but I knew it would get me out of that situation. “I didn’t see no text, I better check,” he said. I was inching my way over to the casino, and I was trying to escape him. “Okay, I gotta go. It’s too damn hot over here, and I need to get to where there is air conditioning.” I said. I sent out another text to discuss my most recent encounter.

Me:      Now an old Jamaican man just asked me out. Special.

Me:      …in the parking lot.

Me:      All kinds of fun here.

One Man Wolf Pack:      You should’ve told him, sorry I don’t eat jerk chicken or

Jamaican curry goat hahah

I could always count on the One Man Wolf Pack for his smart-ass responses. The one who I named the One Man Wolf Pack was an executive chef at one of my hangouts. He always referred to himself as a wolf, and he was always by himself, so… Did I steal it from the Hangover? It was more like borrowed. But, it was fitting, and he approved. “I’m like Alan from the Hangover anyway,” he confessed one day.

Anyhow, that goddamn track was like a minefield, even its parking lot. It was so hot, that by the time I got to the track, I was sweating more than a…well, you know. I walked in, and I welcomed the air conditioning. I saw a random guy standing by the main entrance. “You winnin’?” I asked. That was the standard question when betting the horses. “Nope,” he said. “You’re not going over there, are you?” And I gestured to the track. “Yeah, I’m going over,” he said. “Don’t do it, there isn’t any air conditioning over there. It’s goddamn hot!” I warned, as sweat dripped from my brow. I walked past him and I went into the lounge where I usually bet the horses.

I looked to the bar where A La Verga usually sat. And, there he was, but he stood instead of sitting. I walked up behind him without letting him noticing me. That was easy because he was in some kind of heavy conversation with the floor server. I walked up behind him, and I grabbed his ass and stepped away from him. He always whipped around as though he was going to punch whoever did it. It always freaked him out, and I always laughed. “A la verga!” He shouted. I laughed and stood back for a minute. And then, I hugged him and the two that were there with him. One guy looked like Colonel Sanders and the other referred to himself as Johnny Fist. Later, he would tell me stories about how he used to be a rock star.

“What are you fuckers doing?” I asked. “I was over there looking for you guys over there, and you were here the whole time. It’s goddamn hot over there” I complained as I fanned myself with a program that I picked up on the bar. “What’s wrong with you?” A La Verga asked me. “I’m from Canada. I’m not built for this weather” I complained. “Well, get your ass ready, because you’re walking back over there with us,” A La Verga claimed. “Goddamn it, it’s hot over there. Didn’t you hear me?” I whined. In the meantime, my phone went off. It was T.

T:         Are u still at the track…pick me up a Santa Anita race form

Me:      Lazy ass…

T:         Please…handicap tonight…will give u an allowances tomorrow…

Me:      I’ll get you one…lol

So then, I had to go back to the track. “Okay…I’ll go back,” I told A La Verga.

We walked back. On the way, both he and Johnny fist each tried to get me to go home with them. I knew I wouldn’t go home with either of them, but I let them argue. In whatever way, it was sort of a compliment to have men argue over me. Instead of walking with them though, I walked with the guy who looked like Colonel Sanders. “What? I can’t hear you…” he said, “…my hearing aid is on the other side.” “Move over then, and let me on the other side of you,” I told him as we walked over. He just laughed, and there we were, on our way back to the track. “Those two jackasses are trying to pick me up, and either of them are walking with me” I laughed. He laughed too. “Hey! Both of you wanted her over here, but none of you are walking with her!” he shouted, and then laughed. They didn’t care. They had already drank too much, especially Johnny fist.

“We’re going to sit at the bar. There’s good AC there,” A La Verga declared, as he walked at least 10 feet ahead of me and the Colonel. I had given up on talking to the Colonel at that point, he didn’t hear anything that I said anyway, so we all walked over in silence after our seating instructions. We walked in through the side doors, and past security in their bright yellow shirts. They nodded their heads at us, they knew us, and we knew them. Just like it was when I left, it was goddamn hot in there and I was having hot flashes like I was going through menopause. I hated that place. Through the entrance I said, “Hey, I need to get a program for T tomorrow, wait,” they all stopped. “Seven dollars please” said the cashier. “Yeah, but it says 83 cents an issue on the cover. Why are you charging me seven bucks?” I asked, jokingly. “83 cents?” She asked and continued, “…that’s only for online forms,” she laughed back. “Hey, I had to try,” I told her.

Once I made the exchange and had T’s form, we all moved in unison to the bar, all four of us. I hated walking through that place. It was too bright, too smoky, and too hot. But, we walked through. As we walked through, past the line of tellers, I waved to the cute one who I had made a bet with earlier. He gave me a program for free, but it was the wrong one. We went to the bar, and it was full. But, because those three were regulars there, people moved for us. The full bar parted, and offered us three barstools.

Once we got to the bar, the stories began to come out. “You write, don’t you?” One of them asked. “Yeah, I’m trying…” I said while being cut off. “You know the Pachucos?” Asked Johnny Fist. “No,” I said leaning in to give him my attention. I couldn’t focus though, it was too hot, and all I could think of was finding a place with air conditioning. “They were the types of guys who slicked their hair back and always had a comb, 1950’s style. One time I saw one of them get into a fight, but he got shot. It was the beginning of a new era,” he said. “They usually fought with knives…” he continued. I had drifted off again. “Hey, will you look over my memoires?” he asked. And I came back from my daze. “Yeah, I can edit that, and I can even write it for you,” I said with confidence. I didn’t know if he would even remember the conversation the next day.

After that conversation, A La Verga and Johnny Fist began to bicker. “What are those two girls fighting about?” I asked the Colonel who was to my left. “What?!” he asked loudly. I had to lean into the ear with his hearing aid, and I repeated my question. “What are those two girls fighting about?” I said louder. “Oh they’re just squabbling over a losing ticket,” he answered, and then he changed the subject. “Look at the legs on her,” he said looking over to the bar. I was one of the guys, so it didn’t faze me. “Who?” I asked. He shifted his gaze over to one of the bartenders again. “What? Her?” I asked surprised, “she doesn’t have any muscle” He couldn’t stop staring at her, and he kept going on about her and finally he said, “She would wrap those legs so hard around your head that she would give you cauliflower ears. I heard that happens, I read a book once.” I couldn’t stop laughing. I laughed so hard at what he said, that I cried. “Oh it’s not that funny!” he said while he watched me laugh and laugh.

Next to us was the open area where people stood in line to order drinks. Next in that line was one of the other regulars standing there I recognized him, but I didn’t remember his name. He recognized me, and he came over to hug me. I warned him before he embraced me, “I’m all sweaty.” His response? “That’s okay sweat heart. I’ve had plenty of girls sweat all over me before, if you know what I mean.” I didn’t say a word. I just hugged him as though I didn’t hear anything he had said. The next thing he said was even funnier, “How’s the little one? What is she, three now?” I sat there and thought about what to say in that moment. I didn’t want him to feel stupid, so I said, “She’s good.” “She must be getting big now huh? About this tall?” he gestured with his hand. “Yeah, well, that’s what they do. They grow so fast,” I offered. “When my daughter was young…” I got bored with the conversation, and I fazed out. When he was done talking I said, “Okay, well, I’ll see you later.” He said, “bye,” before he left carrying his beer.

It was starting to get busy there, and I was ready to leave. “Let me buy you another wine,” said Johnny Fist after looking at the empty plastic cup that had held my wine. He was too drunk to order, so he leaned over to the Colonel, “Hey, you order the next round. That bitch won’t serve me. I’ll pay for it,” he slurred. It was my third glass. I shouldn’t have, but I did. I had been there since 1:00, and it was close to 6:00, so I didn’t see any reason to say no, apart from the temperature. The bartender gave Johnny Fist one last shot. She gave it to him in a tiny plastic shot glass with a Jagermeister symbol on it with Jagermeister written underneath it. It was filled with tequila. “Haha!” I laughed, “That looks like a urine sample!” And with that comment, I had worked him up. “What the fuck is this?” Johnny Fist yelled at the bartender, “it looks like a goddamn urine sample!” His complaints were ignored. He was drunk enough by then that he was beginning to annoy me. I turned around to talk to someone, and when I looked back, Johnny Fist had taken my plastic cup of wine and slammed it. “Hey, you drank my wine fucker!” I yelled. “Yup, I did” he slurred. I knew then that it was time to go. That was enough for me, at least for that day. I said my goodbye’s again, and I was on my way to T’s to drop off his form.

I drove down Eubank and caught every damn red light. I always struggled to find where he lived all of those apartment complexes looked the same, but I got it on the first try that time. I parked my car, put it in neutral, pulled the hand brake up, grabbed his form, and ran out of my car in the darkness barefoot and tippy toed to his apartment door. When I got to his door, there was a pamphlet already tucked into his door that said,

’Can the dead really live again?

Would you say …

• yes?

• no?

• maybe?

T, well, he is what I would call…not anti religious, but cynical-ish. I thought it was a perfect set up, so I clipped his racing form to his door and included the pamphlet on top of his form. And then, I ran back to my car to get my phone. It was photo worthy. I laughed the entire time to myself. I ran back, took a picture, and then I left. The next day I sent him a text accompanied with a photo of my work.

Me:      Did you get your note?

I didn’t get the response I wanted though. I thought he’d say something hateful back. But, no. All I got in return was this,

T:       Handicap…time

Later at the casino, I complained to T about being at the track without him the day before. “I can’t be there without you!” I bitched. “Do you know what happened to me!?” I questioned. I didn’t give him time to answer, “I was asked out once, asked for sex twice, offered a shot, offered a glass of wine, been called a Barbie, offered to stand in the winners circle for a picture, and invited to Vegas!” And, I continued, “…one of them is over there sitting the bar!” “Which one?” T asked. “The one with the hat!” I complained. I was worked up. “The one with the glasses and the hat?” T asked. “Yes, that’s him!” I confirmed. Just then, the bartender came over to see what I wanted to drink, and when he did, T’s sick humor came out. “Myron, you send a drink over to guy with hat and glasses at the bar and tell him it’s from Margaret,” he said with a straight face. “NO! don’t do that!” I said to the bartender, but he thought it was too funny, laughed, walked away, and he brought over a drink to the guy at the bar and said it was from me. T sent him two drinks and told the bartender that they were from me that day. Later, I had to endure more creepy hugs from my admirer. T thought it was hilarious, because that was just how he was. I suppose it was pay back because I posted that creepy sign on his door. That’s just how we were together, like a bickering old couple trying to out do one another.  At least he was fun. 

I woke up this morning at 8:33, and my head hurt like a motherfucker. At least I was in my own bed, and there wasn’t anyone there. What did I do last night? I asked myself. I laid there, wrapped in my flowery duvet that I liked to hide under for comfort. Oh yeah, I remembered, while I sat on my chair with my dog watching Friday on a Saturday morning. It all started innocently enough. I didn’t plan on going anywhere the day before. I went into work on my day off, and all I wanted to do was to go home and nap. But then, I started to get texts.

Savers: Happy Hour Later?

Savers, is what I liked to call him, because, well, he liked to go to Savers. Savers is kind of like a Goodwill, but cheaper. We went on Tuesday’s usually, because it was senior’s day and it had a 30% discount on the already cheap crap. Anyway…

Me: May be. Where?

Savers: You tell me. You’re the picky one.

Me: I’m the lazy one

Me: And poor one.

An hour later,

Me: I’ve decided on the Crow. I don’t like the Bistro. 4:00?

Savers: Ok

Meanwhile, I was entertaining other texts. I called him Harley Davidson;

Harley Davidson: Are you stroing today?

That was his abbreviation for the bistro…

Me: Either there or the Crow with my new wingman Savers…I’ll let you know. What time will you be around?

Harley Davidson: Probably around 4 ish

Me: I’ll let you know…

Harley Davidson: Cool

Me: Did you hear about Yoko busting into Free Time’s house a few weeks ago? Did I

tell you?

The rule of hanging out with the rich white people was that when you weren’t at the table, you were on the menu. So…

Harley Davidson: No what happened?

Me: Oh really? Lol it’s a good one.

Me: About Yoko; he flipped out looking for New Boobs. He went into Free Time’s house in the middle of the night, twice, looking for her. He went upstairs into their bedroom

while he and his wife were in bed.

Harley Davidson: What!!! He’s lucky he didn’t get

Shot. So is New Boobs his new fling?

Yoko, you ask? Well…there is this guy who invaded our group a year ago, and he just fucked everything up. None of us were all together anymore. The one who I refer to as Yoko, told my former wingman, who I call C7, because, well, he has one, that the regulars of our group were trash talking him. He just disappeared and fell into a woman. Oh, and New Boobs. Well, she has new boobs. It was like an endemic where I hung out. Everyone bought themselves new boobs. She was a fleeting woman who was trying to escape her marriage. Anyway…I digress.

I was the spoiled one in the group who got to choose where we went. I referred to myself as the ring leader and that I was trying to get the circus back together. It was a tough feat.

I went to the Crow. I hugged all of my favorite bar and wait staff. I remembered that one of them still had a key to my apartment. I had him dog sit once, and I let him keep it. I secretly hoped he would show up one night, but he hasn’t yet. I drank two glasses of wine with Savers and Harley Davidson. It was uneventful really, and then Savers asked me to go to the bistro for another glass. What could I say? It wasn’t like I had anything better to do. So, I went. After that, I got invited to Saver’s house for dinner. “My daughter is there” he reassured. It was late, and I drank too much wine, but I went anyway.

There was too much going on that day. I was getting texts from my neighbor that I was supposed to pick up. Clearly I couldn’t. He was on the other side of town. I call him Gus’s Boyfriend. Gus’s Boyfriend? Gus stood for ‘guy upstairs.’ And, my neighbor, Gus’s boyfriend, used to be inseparable from the guy upstairs, hence the name.

Gus’s Boyfriend: Okay, I get off at 7PM or 7:30 PM tonight.

Me: I can’t drive there, but I will Uber you home.

Me: Is that okay?

Gus’s Boyfriend: It’s okay don’t worry about me I find something else hop you

okay.

Well, I was off the hook for that, but then, I got another text.

Green Chili: What are you doing later this evening?

Me: Umm…nothing.

I should have said that I was out. I was already many glasses in and I had to get home.

Me: I’m in rich white people land and by the time I get home, I probably won’t be able to drive.

Me: Well, drive anywhere else.

Me: You guys want to come over?

What a stupid idea that was.

Green Chili: What time were are you thinking?

Me: 9:00 ish?

I made my way back home and sent out texts indicating so.

Savers: Home

That was sometime just before 9:00 PM. I laid down in my bed with my Beats on and I tried to sleep. I had already regretted my decision to invite them over, but it was too late.

Green Chili: Ok cool – we are going to eat and we will be there around 9

Me: Okay, text when you’re here so my dog doesn’t freak out.

Sometime around 10:00 there was a knock on my door, no warning text. I painfully got up. I looked out of my kitchen window, and, it was them. There were three of them. One stood there holding a bag of beer, and the other with two bottles of wine. I opened my door, let them in, and five hours later, six beer, and two bottles of wine, they left. I wanted to say bye Felicia, but I was too drunk and tired, and I didn’t think they’d get the reference anyway. Now, back to waking up at 8:33 in the morning.

Fuck. I didn’t want to wake up. My head hurt, my body was lame, but I didn’t have a choice. The sun was shining in. I reached over and grabbed my phone from the night stand to see what other mischief that I got up to night before. Thankfully, it was nothing more. No drunk texts.

I rolled out of bed, literally, on to my dog’s bed next to me, to which he was still on. He stretched out on it while I crawled over him. I felt like shit. I dragged my ass up into the kitchen. I opened my fridge that was littered with pictures of my past and grabbed my power aid. I stood there with the opened fridge and drank straight from the bottle. It didn’t help. I looked around my apartment for evidence of what happened the night before. 

There were two, almost empty pint glasses and two very empty wine glasses. Near the couch I found a near empty wine bottle. I poured it into one of the glasses and finished it. I figured that it couldn’t get any worse.

I looked at my phone again. I realized that had forgotten to check if I had made any calls. Sometimes I made calls while drinking, they were almost worst than texts. At least with texts I could go back and read them to see what I wrote. There were no calls. But, I did see a call that I had been trying to make for a few days without an answer. I decided to call him. His name was Sponsor. I met him at a bar while watching hockey. It was team Canada vs. Sweden in the world junior’s hockey in January, and he came it. There were four of them. They all came in and sat at the bar, “Who the hell is watching hockey?” he complained. “I am!” I said back quickly. I was sitting there wearing my red Canada t-shirt watching the game all by myself. We bantered for a while, and then I told him I had to leave. “Leave? What do you mean leave?” he questioned. “Well, I can’t afford it here. I need a sponsor!” I told him. “Well then, I’ll be your sponsor,” he said. So, that was how I found him.

After a few visits and him hearing how much I hated my job and wanted to leave it, he had offered me a room to stay in if I decided to move to California. I pushed his name in my phone to call him. “Hello?” he answered. “Hey, still remember me?” I asked. He didn’t finagle his words. “When are you coming? Or are you here?” he asked. “I’m not there yet, but I’ll be there on Thursday. I just wanted to call to make sure you didn’t forget me,” I teased. “How can I forget you?” he laughed. “I’ll be there to look for a job and meet people…” I told him, “…and if it’s okay with you, I’d like to go visit my new digs.” “Well, yes,” he agreed. “Is it hot is it there? It’s 107 here,” I asked. “100 yesterday. Don’t worry though, I have a pool” he reassured. “You mean I’m moving into another goddamn heat wave?” I asked sarcastically. “Yup” was his only response. “Okay then, get ready, I’m a comin’” I told him. “Should I call you when I get there, since you don’t text?” “I text!” he lauged. He had one of those slider phones still, and he liked to boast about his refusal to get a smart phone. 

We hung up, and I had reassured the spot that I was going to live in. It was a gamble. I didn’t know who this man was really. I met him on a trip in January, February, and April briefly. But, each time I returned, he hosted huge welcome back parties for me with a bunch of people who had grown dear to me. I liked to gamble, so I will be there in August to live, and I’ll see what it’s like.

My next thought, Food.

What was the last thing I ate? And when?  I wondered. I had a piece of chicken the night before and some salad. Well, I should probably eat something, I thought. I wasn’t hungry, but I often forgot to eat. I didn’t want to go by myself, so…

Me: No Flagstaff today.

Gus’s Boyfriend: O okay

Me: May be McDonald’s for take out breakfast. You got your hair and make up on? Want to go?

Gus’s Boyfriend: Okay, I will get ready. I will be don in 10 minutes k.

Me: You don’t need to get ready…I look like crap. Lol lets go.

I sent a text to my neighbor for moral support. I sat out in my car. I called it my ghetto car. I had a broken radio, so…I found a JBL speaker at work and I took it. I used it in my car after that. I would connect my phone via Bluetooth to Pandora and that was how I rolled. Gus’s Boyfriend came out, and we were on our way. “I hate this light” I complained at the intersection near our complex. “I know, it takes so long” he concurred. Finally it turned green, and we turned left. “Let’s go to the Jewish place instead of McDonalds,” I said. “Sounds good” my neighbor said. “I hate how slow people drive here” I said as I was whizzing in and out of traffic. We went to Einstein’s Bagel shop, I bought him breakfast to go, and away we went.

We got back to the complex and he gave me 21 dollars. He liked to give me money for one reason or another, so I took it. Don’t judge me.

That is my life. In the span of 24 hours all of that had happened. It was only 10:00 on a Saturday morning. I might have left out a few details, but a girl needs to have her secrets. I wonder what the rest of the day will bring. It’s the first day of live horse racing…I’m sure it will bring more.

Flagstaff, Arizona

I opened my eyes, and it was dark. I was moving in a silent lull. I could hear the radio playing quietly in the background, but it was so quiet that it was indistinguishable. ‘Where was I?I wondered.’ I laid there, quiet, silent, unsure, and unmoving. A new smell had reached my nose. It was unknown for the moment, yet familiar. It was the smell of a new car. I held on to the make shift blanket atop me, after seeing the strings, I recognized it as my shawl. My vision began to come back to me, and I noticed the window. Outside of it there were speckles of white, hypnotizing flakes. It was snowing, but it was May, I thought. In the darkness the trees were far back in the background, barely visible, but covered in white. I was sleeping in the front seat of a car, but whose car? Who was driving? Where was I going? All of those questions and confusion had registered within me within the first few seconds of awakening. Then, it finally came to me. The rental car. I looked over to the drivers seat and there was a focused little Asian man driving, it was T. We were driving through the night to go to Kingman, Arizona. You see, I went to Vegas earlier that week. I went there with a boyfriend and a car, and I came back with neither. T and I were on our way to get one of them.

Earlier that night, at 2:00 AM and my alarm was going off. In the pure darkness of my room I could hear my CD alarm clock begin to spin the disk that it encapsulated. The low, lull of Radiohead began to fill the room. Each morning when I heard it, instead of waking me up it whisked me away to another place, another time and I drifted back into a trance, back to a different country. Then from my nightstand, my phone entered the darkness. ‘Tap for snooze’ it said. I did. I laid there buried under layers of make shift pajama’s, the hoodie that comforted me the most, and a flowery duvet, I hid my head under it completely. I was engulfed. I asked myself why on earth were my alarms going off at this hour? Did I fuck up my alarm? Was I dreaming? What day was it? Did I have to go to work? Those were all of the questions that ran through my head. The answer was Kingman. Kingman, Arizona. I had to go get T, and we had to drive there through the night, or at least that’s what he told me to do. I was so broken and worn at that point in my life, that anyone giving me direction on how to proceed was welcomed. If T said we had to leave at 2:30 AM, then, we had to leave at 2:30 AM.

My dog was now aware that I was awake, and he was confused. It seemed that even he knew something was different. Then, as he does, gave me this sad look that he gave when he knew I was about to leave him. I hated that look, it was always heartbreaking, but knew that I had to go. T said. I pulled my duvet and placed my pillows ‘just right’ on my make shift bed, a futon laid flat that I’d slept on for years. I got up and managed to pull some clothes on, ones that would leave me looking like I hadn’t driven all night. It looked, instead, as though I just came in from a night out. I looked slightly hungover and wore slightly wrinkled skinny jeans, a black top, and the hoodie that I slept in. It was black and from Mother Board Brewery in Flagstaff, Arizona.

I grabbed a tiny pillow from my bed and my black fringed shall. Each accompanied me with their own distinct memories, and those memories comforted me. That was why I took them. Then, I grabbed my backpack, a toothbrush, and my emergency overnight bag (a Ziploc with a collection of tiny toiletries from the hotels I’ve frequented, strictly in tact for impromptu Vegas trips). Oh, and my full sized wine bladder. Filled.

Finally, I packed the car with what I thought I needed and it was time to go. With his big brown sad eyes, he looked up at me, knowingly. “I’m sorry buddy, I gotta go. Zoe will be here, and she’ll take care of you. I’m so sorry buddy. Bedtime.” With one last ruffling of his coat, he sadly walked towards his crate and got in. I felt horrible. With my tired, half drunk eyes I squinted for the bulky rental car fob and I pushed in my alarm code with my slightly numb fingers, 1-9-4-0. Why did I drink so much wine last night? Outside of my door everything was still. The outside world had no memory of what had happened or no knowledge of what was about to. The cool air greeted me under the dim porch light.

I arrived at what I could remember was T’s apartment complex…was this the place he showed me last night? I questioned myself. I wasn’t sure. In the darkness of the early morning and the haze still in my head, I scanned the balconies of each complex in search of the jungle that he had grown to ‘keep people out.’ I supposed it was a good idea, I mean, who would want to weed through a bunch of plants just to break in? Too much effort, I thought. After driving in at 5 mph searching, there it was, just to my left. There were plants everywhere, tipped over, over grown, and just out of control. It was impossible to even see if there was an entrance behind them. Feeling a little weird, and oddly slightly nervous, I got out of the tiny little black sedan. I shut the door and once again, everything was still.

Tucked back into a nook within the complex, his door stood there in the dark, nestled between the walls with another door parallel. With my slightly shaky hand, I began to knock softly as to not disturb the neighbors. But, in the silence my knocks on his door could still be heard throughout the complex. The first knock was quiet. I stood there and wondered how he’d come to the door. The next knock was equally as quiet. My first attempts were polite. I wouldn’t want to wake up to someone banging on my door at 2:30 in the morning –wait, I have. I began to question why I was there. Did he change his mind? Would he lead me down a road of disappointment like other men in my life? I knocked and knocked with more enthusiasm, harder and harder. I called and knocked simultaneously, now impatient and worried. Finally, the door began to open and there stood a short, yet stout, half asleep Asian man. T.

He opened the door, turned around and walked deeper into his apartment without so much as a grunt. He was barefoot, in gray sweat pants, and an oversized shirt that looked more like a muumuu than a shirt. He never seemed to wear shirts that fit. May be he couldn’t find any. Maybe he didn’t like being small and the big shirts built up his confidence. He stopped at the counter, lit a cigarette, and disappeared down the hallway into his room. It left me time to look around. His place reminded me of something, but what? My breath was muffled by the thick, stagnate air of cigarette smoke. I didn’t think there had been a window open for years, nor was there any clue of a woman’s presence for an equal amount of time. The haze of air was slowly suffocating me, yet there was something soothing about it all. It came to me. It reminded me of my uncle’s house, my ‘drunkel’. Suddenly I was at ease.

Everything in his apartment was covered with years and years of cigarette smoke. It appeared as though it was never dusted, never wiped down, everything was just there. There was a sticky layer of film to which the dust and everything else clung to. The once beige sofa was now shades darker, covered with the same layer of film and dirt. And, there were more plants. They were as equally chaotic in his apartment as they were on the balcony and then there were random things. They were interesting. There was a big gold Budda statue stood by his door collecting loose change. Even more peculiar was that at the end of his hallway on his bedroom door was a mounted poster of ‘The Dude’ from the Big Lebowski. I couldn’t help but notice the enormous collection of liquor bottles half full, half empty, or nothing at all, just sitting there in the smog of his apartment.

He came out with what looked like the exact shirt he went in with, with a pair of jeans, black leather loafers with an old worn cotton ball cap that sat slightly sideways, almost hanging off of his head, a lit cigarette hung from his lip slightly to the right. He blended with the ambiance of his apartment. Meanwhile, all of this was happening in silence. As he approached where I stood, he simply said, “We need coffee,” and he didn’t break stride. He opened the door, stood there, and waited for me to walk through. He shut it, locked it, and we were on our way. By then it was nearly 3:00 AM. We were late.

As we walked to the car he spoke sternly to me and I felt like I was being scolded. In his unique version of English, he said, “Last night you plant a seed in my head,” pointing to his temple. While we walked towards the car I asked sheepishly, “What seed? What did I do now?” Walking towards the passenger side of the car looking blankly ahead, still smoking his cigarette, now placed between his right index and ring finger, “I Googled Laughlin and it only 30 mile from Kingman. 30 miles!” he exclaimed, “We go, bet horses there. We see when we get there,” That was the last thing he said for the next few minutes after he got into the car. Those few minutes felt like an eternity. I got in the driver seat and pushed the button to start the car. Without breaking my forward stare, I tried to make small talk. The silence was uncomfortable. I’d never spent any sober time with him. “You know it took me forever to figure out how to start this stupid car the first time? I received no reply. I was talking to myself. The hum of the car was all that occupied the air. But then, sharply piercing the silence was T’s voice, “Turn right, you turn left at light on Cambria, then you see Giant on right. We get coffee there.”

We pulled into the gas station. T said something to the cashier that was outside who was trying to fix one of the busted sprinklers while he marched in. And, that’s exactly what he did, he marched in. He was familiar with them. I could only guess that this was a part of his morning routine. We walked in and I could feel how at ease he was, yet I could feel their eyes and thoughts spinning. In the meantime, my eyes were trying to adjust to the brightness. T had probably walked into that gas station for coffee for years on his own and now he was this middle aged Asian man showing up in the middle of the night with some random chick, nearly half his age. My black hair was tied, my bangs parted just right, with the black eye liner pointing out my half blood shot, half green eyes. I wore flip flops so I didn’t tower over him like I usually did. I always felt weird about being taller than him with my usual high heel boots. I didn’t want to emasculate him. I always felt bad when I stood next to him in heels.

T didn’t skip a beat. While I was busy wondering what the cashiers must have thought, he went directly to the coffee. I wandered around the gas station leisurely looking at everything they had as though I was in a foreign country.

As I wandered and wondered what would go with the wine I snuck into the car, T small talked and joked with the cashier. He was a regular looking white guy who probably had cashier jobs his entire life with the hopes to one day build his dream car and win a local drag race. The idea was to capture the glory days of high school once again. I grabbed a bag of lays, a suicide sandwich, a handful of mustard packets, and a coffee. T stood there looking frustrated. He didn’t offer any special attention to me, nor did he insinuate anything between us. Instead, as I was paying the cashier asked, “Where are you going so early?” T replied on my behalf, “We’re going to get her fucking car in KINGMAN ARIZONA!” We walked out.

Away we went. As I sat there and we sipped our coffee, I was reminded of T’s philosophy. If you can sit in a car with someone for eight hours without killing each other, that was a signal of true friendship. I wondered what would happen. Could we make it? One time he told me that he was driving to Washington state from Albuquerque with his girlfriend, and he wanted to kill her within hours. So much so, that he tried to fly back, but he was in the middle of nowhere by the time he decided that enough was enough. He was stuck driving to Seattle with her. He said it was so bad, that as soon as they arrived there he went straight to the airport and flew back to Albuquerque. He was supposed to be moving there with her – I could only imagine how bad it got. We, on the other hand were still relatively quiet as we headed west on I 40. Then, he decided to speak again. “You stop at Route 66 Casino, that sushi and wasabi go right through me. I empty and then we go. And, more coffee.” That was a good way to remember the sushi we had the night before. I cringed and remembered that I was just one of the guys.

We were back on the freeway again. This time T was driving. I didn’t want to fall asleep on him. It was going to be a long drive. But I wondered, how do I stay awake? I knew how. I wanted wine. “T, I’m going to have some wine. Are you okay with that?” I asked. While drinking his coffee he didn’t take his eyes off the road, “Yeah, I don’t care. It your car, you do what you want.” I stretched the wine out to last just over three hours, a tough task but I wanted to keep him company. After coffee T began to open up, and I was at ease with some wine in me and we began to exchange stories. I’d heard most of his story’s many times, but I just listened and acted like it was my first time. His stories were one of the best parts of him. With a sly eye and voice he turned my way and said in a slight whisper, “You know why I drink vodka?” He answered his own question, “…because you not smell vodka.” I began to think about how and when I had met T...

…T and I met sometime the year before. He held a true Vietnamese name that I couldn’t quite get comfortable saying, Trung. So, for short, I, and everyone else, just called him T for simplicity. I didn’t remember exactly how I met him, but it was at the Grand Stand, adoringly referred to as the track. The track was and remains, a peculiar place that I was introduced to some years ago. I was brought there on a first date – but that’s a different story. The track evolved, and soon there was a brand new casino. They had cheaper wine. Over there, I always sat at the bar and, I had a bartender who would look the other way on most of my tabs. I morphed over to the new casino for that very reason, but I kept referring to it as the track. I was a creature of habit, even though it was really called the First Turn Lounge. The bar was ascetically pleasing, and that helped. There were silver stars in groups of three hanging from the ceiling that were put up for the first Christmas that they were opened, but were never taken down. They remained a part of the bar’s atmosphere.

It wasn’t long before my bartender had quit working at the casino and I had to find a new seat, one away from the bar. I wasn’t comfortable there without him but, I found a safe place. I sat at a table of gay men who bet the horses; affectionately to be known as ‘my gays’. For one reason or another T was sitting among them. I would get so very excited every time I saw him there. He was always so, wait…he was nice. I always squealed his name, “TEEEEEEEEEEE!” each time I saw him and I would hug him as hard as I could, sometimes I would lift him off of his feet. He pretended as though he didn’t like it, but, I think he did.

T had come to be something of a foundation in my life. We had always maintained a relationship where we never talked outside of the casino. We had met at the track each Saturday and Sunday for the past year though. I bugged him for his number, but he would never give it to me. He always did it out of respect. I always seemed to be in a relationship. And then, one day when he realized that I was in a fucked up relationship and he had to help, he finally gave me his card. Even then, when I’d text him through the week, he’d never reply. That was just how he was, and I was okay with that. That, was how I met T…

I looked up and I realized that we were approaching Flagstaff. In the early snowy, morning, I could see the snow capped peaks of the San Francisco mountains. I couldn’t handle it. I had finished my wine, and the idea of driving through Flagstaff and not stopping was just too much, especially atop of all that was happening. He was so close, but we’d just have to drive through. “T, I’m sleepy.” I told him. I was tired, but I just wanted to avoid driving through it, seeing it. “So, sleep then!” He barked, in the snowy blizzard that we drove into for the past two hours. I laid the seat back as much as possible, and nestled myself up against the side of the car with the only two comforts that I brought from home, my pillow and shawl. I closed my eyes and I couldn’t quite sleep, nor could I help but think about him, Vin. He was the one person who I had let go a long time ago and I shouldn’t have. In that moment, I began to lose myself into the thoughts of our beginnings…

“Now get out” I yelled.

“What?!” he said, standing there in his white tube socks soaked in his own urine, boxers, and t-shirt. His pants were still in my bedroom.

I was living in Seoul, South Korea, and I was teaching English to a bunch of kids. All of us English instructors were out drinking, because that’s what you do in Korea. Drink. We were at a local bar. We usually took the subway for an hour to get near any English speaking people, but that night we were lazy.

At the bar, I met this blonde guy who said he was from Toronto. He was there to be a DJ. We talked about Canada, we talked about ecstasy, and then we talked about him coming home with me. “I don’t want to take the subway all the way home. Do you live near here?” He asked. I too am from Canada, so the conversation was soothing. I got sucked in.

We took a cab to my apartment, “Jung Gae Dong, O-dung-gee” I told the cab driver, in my best Korean. That meant the 500 block of the slew of apartments that I lived in. We made it to my apartment and climbed up to the 9th floor of the dingy place that I lived at. Things, well, they went well, until I woke up in the middle of the night. I woke up to him getting out of my bed. He wasn’t exactly stealth about it. I didn’t move, but I opened my eyes to see what he was getting up to do. My cat was awake, and he too, was watching to see what this guy was going to do. I didn’t even know his name.

To my surprise, he walked over to the door frame of my bedroom door, paused, and pulled out his penis. He began to urinate all over my floor. I still didn’t move. I just watched in horror. I didn’t know what to do. He crawled back into bed as though nothing had happened. I laid there for a minute, and I thought about what I should do. Meanwhile, my cat was sitting on the floor staring at me as though he too, was asking for a reaction. I had to think carefully. I didn’t know anything about that guy and the closest person who could help me was at least two blocks away. I had to be tough.

I got up quietly and grabbed my cell phone. I had my boss’s number on the screen. All I needed to do was to hit send, and he’d be there in probably 15 minutes, at least. Meanwhile, he was sound asleep in my bed while there was a disgusting puddle of urine in my doorway. I needed to wake him up, but how? I was disgusted with him, and I didn’t want to even touch him. I looked around, and I saw the squirt bottle that I used for my cat when he was doing something wrong. I stood there, in the corner of my bedroom with a squirt bottle, that I put on stream, and a cell phone. I stared at him for a few minutes and then, I unleashed the squirt bottle.

At first he twitched. And then he rubbed his face, reacting to the water. Finally, he jumped up and said, “What the fuck are you doing?” “Get up!” I told him. Amidst my pondering what to do with the phone and the water bottle, I had prepared my mop bucket and mop for him to sop up his mess. I had jumped over the puddle or urine and placed it just outside of my bedroom. “Get up!” I yelled again. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” he asked. “Me? What’s wrong with me? You’re the one who pissed on my floor!” I shouted, pointing the water bottle at him as though it was a gun. He was vertical and walked through the bedroom door into his puddle, “What the fuck is that?” he shouted. I shouted back, “That’s your puddle of piss!” “That’s not mine, it must have been the cat!” he argued. “The cat?! Really?! Are you retarded?! The cat couldn’t have done even half of that. It was you. I watched you stand there and piss on my floor!!” I argued back. “I have my boss on speed dial, and he can be here in two minutes. Clean up your mess!” I yelled with authority. “What?!” he asked puzzled. “I put the mop and bucket out for you to clean up your mess. I’m not touching it!”

I guess I was intimidating enough. He started to clean it up. Once I was satisfied with his clean up job, I threw him out. “Now, get out!” I yelled. “What?!” he questioned. “Are you fucking serious?” he asked. “Yeah, get the fuck out of here! And, forget where I live!” “I don’t have any money to take the subway home” he whined. “I don’t care, get the fuck out of my apartment!” I yelled back. He held his clothes in his hands that I had thrown at him, and I muscled him out of my door. And that was it. He was never to be seen again.

At 7:30 on a Sunday morning I got a text,

     T:      Good morning miss Margrett

T always spelled my name wrong, but I never did correct him.

     Me:      Long night

     Me:      I’m busy trying to watch two houses and 13 animals…

     T:        Animal Whisper

     T:        Go to the down about 1..meet up

That was T asking me to go to the horse track, ‘go to the down.’ It always made me laugh.

     Me:       I’ll try. I need to have a nap

      T:       Take ur nap…

      Me:     Nap. Got it. Then paint toes.

      T:        Toe nail take longer than nap

When texting T, I tended to revert to his version of English. Telling T that I was going to paint my toenails was always my excuse to be late to the track. It was our code.

I woke up in enough time to shower, get dressed, and put make up on to get to the track by just after 1:00 PM. I wore a pink top, skinny jeans (rolled up), and a pair of heels. I toggled between flip flops and the heels, but the heels won.

I walked out into the near 100 degree heat, and I got into my car. I turned my radar detector on (I needed one because I nearly got arrested in Arizona one time for doing 90 in a 75 zone). And away I went. I left my apartment and headed east on Paseo to the freeway. I drove south on I-25, east on I-40, and then to Louisiana. I drove up to 90 miles per hour to get there weaving in and out of traffic. I only ever drove on the freeway when I was going to the track, and I loved seeing how fast I could get there. Dangerous? Probably. Stupid? Absolutely. It was just an adrenaline rush. Just a little ways down Louisiana, there it was, the big, boring sign that said ‘The Downs.’

I put my indicator on, and I turned left into what I refer to as the armpit of the horse racing world. There were two buildings. One held the actual race track, and one was the casino. You could bet horses at both, but I preferred the casino. It was newer, nicer, and cheaper. When I turned in, I contemplated just how lazy I was. I somehow managed to get a staff parking pass, and I had to ask myself if I wanted to park by the back door and just walk in, or if I wanted to park in my usual parking spot next to T.

I chose to park next to T. I knew that parking lot like the back of my hand. They had installed some massive speed bumps a few years ago, and I learned how to avoid them. I passed the staff parking lot, and I turned left into the valet parking and quickly turned right. I drove through fast, and I turned left into the regular parking lot. I made a quick left at the back row and I found T’s car. It was in the usual place, but that day he was parked backwards. He drove an old busted Nissan Altima, “I just need something to drive me to work” was what he said about his car. I suppose it was an upgrade from his old 1996 Mazda that we donated to charity a few months back.

I pulled in next to him and leaned over to grab my shawl and track bag from the passenger seat. I called it my track bag because it was filled with pens, rulers, highlighters to help me handicap, and racing form from the week before that I knew T liked to save so he could study it. Oh, and a plastic horse that I used as a good luck charm. I walked in, through one of the side doors into the casino entrance. To get in there were tall glass doors. The handle on the doors used to be brass coated, but they were worn on the top part from being touched so much. I never touched the top of the door handles any where I go anyway. I always opened the door by the bottom of door handle, it was a less traveled area, and less germs. Well, that’s what I thought. Behind me, I noticed an older Hispanic man coming in. He was quite far away, but I waited and held the door open for him anyway. “Thank you hija” he told me, very surprised that I held the door open for him. Hija is the Spanish word for daughter. That seemed to be what they said around here. “You’re welcome,” I told him.

The casino and track were interesting places, with an even more interesting clientele. It was in an area of the city where there was a sign that called it the ‘international district.’ What it really should have said was ‘Skid Row District.’ The area had burnt out drunks laying on the street with empty bottles in their laps, people who were missing limbs, and people who slept in bus stops. Inside, the casino had security guards at each entrance. They stood there to check people’s bags before they went in. There were people there who were attached to oxygen tanks, had walkers, and walked with canes. The demographic in the lounge ranged from Mexicans (mostly) Hispanics, Blacks, Asians, Native Americans, and whites. Whites were the minorities. The beautiful thing at the casino’s lounge was that it didn’t matter where you came from or what you looked like. We were all there to bet. I was simple really.

There is a homeless guy who always rode his bicycle to the track. Sometimes, on my way there, I would see him sleeping in one of the bus stops with his bike next to him. He was always sun burnt, scruffy looking, had long hair that he kept in a thin ponytail, and he was usually in the lounge. I always brought little treats to the lounge, and I always made sure that he got some. “Carl!” I’d say loudly. “Hey, it’s you. It’s the candy lady!” he would always say when he saw me. I always walked up to him and gave him candy, and I’d give him a big hug. One day, one of the guys there scolded me, “Why are you hugging him Margaret. You don’t know where he’s been. That’s gross.” I hated when people were so arrogant, so high on their horse. “He’s a person too. And, how many people do you suppose are nice to him?” I asked, offended. I didn’t receive a response. Carl would usually roam around the lounge making small talk to anyone who would listen to him. I always paid attention to him, not because I felt sorry for him, but because, as I said, he was a person too. And, in all of his despair, he was kind to everyone. I appreciated that about him.

Oh, I can’t forget the prostitutes. One time, in the bathroom a girl was fixing her hair and asked me, “Does my hair look bad?” I was expecting her to have had asked me if she looked good, so my answer was, “Yes.” “You mean I look bad?!” she said worried, with a concerned look on her face. “Oh, I thought you asked me if you looked good. I’m so sorry. Your hair looks great.” I assured her. I walked back to the bar, and I told the bartender what I had said in the bathroom. “They aren’t supposed to be in there for more than five minutes. Security gave them a time limit,” she said. “They?” I asked. She gave me a look. “Oh, They” I was so naïve. I had no idea that they were prostitutes. I’d always see them in there doing their make up, fixing their hair, or readjusting their clothes, but I was dumb. I just thought they were playing in the casino. I guess they were, but not in the usual way. They too were always kind. They always complimented me on what I was wearing or my shoes.

Anyway, that was the crowd that was there. Some of them were a little rough, but for the most part, they were all good people, given the chance.

Inside of the casino, there were two separate sections. There was the actual casino, and a place called the First Turn Lounge. That was where we bet the horses. That day, I walked into the casino, turned left into the lounge, and I walked towards our table. We had our own table, and it was usually left open for us. As I walked in, I scanned the place. There weren’t many regulars there. It seemed that there were mostly newbie’s hanging around from the big race the week before. They must have got lucky and thought they knew how to bet the horses. Betting the horses was no easy game, and they were just fooling themselves. None of them knew how to bet. They just stood at the cashier and machines longer than needed trying to figure out how to put their bet in. There were already lines at both the machines and cashiers when I walked in. That was unusual for a typical Sunday.

I looked to my left, and there was T, sitting at our table. I walked over, threw my shawl over the back of my chair and my track bag. He stood up in the meantime. “TEEEEE!” I squealed while I hugged him. He didn’t say anything. He smirked, sat down, and kept looking into his racing form. I sat down and I couldn’t stop scratching my arms. “What you doing?” T asked. “I’m sorry. I was in rich white people land by the pool last night and the bugs ate me alive. I look like a meth head with all of these marks on my arms” I complained. Just after I sat, the bartender came over to see what I wanted to drink. We didn’t order from any of the floor servers, we didn’t like them. Instead the bartenders left the bar to come over to see if we needed any thing. It probably had something to do with the large tips that T left behind.

We sat there for a while. He was passing the racing form over to me every once in a while. “Tell me what you think, and why. I have new system,” he said. What he meant was, that he thought that he found a new way to bet the horses. “I think the two horse will win,” I told him. “No, two horse not going to win” he said. I passed him two dollars to include me in the bet before he left the table. I went back to texting and not paying attention to my surroundings. He came back a few minutes later. “Fuck this fucking race. Fuck those jockeys” he complained. “I bet the two with seven, and fucking seven faded” he said. “Yeah, but the two horse won right? Isn’t that what I said?” I asked. He just threw his losing tickets on the right side of the table and ignored my comment. “I need to keep them for income tax, I signed for ticket four times this year. Don’t throw them away,” he complained again. For those of you who aren’t betters, well, when you win big betting on the horses, you had to sign for tax purposes. That was what he was complaining about. Meanwhile, my biggest complaint was how I couldn’t stop scratching my arms. It was ridiculous.

“Margaret, go get me real drink,” he said. That meant a pint of vodka with a splash of tonic. I kept scratching my arms as he told me what to do. “T, what can I do to make this itching stop? It’s killing me.” I whined. He didn’t say anything, and he got up and walked over to the bartender. He had a brief discussion with her and came back. I thought he got up to order his own drink, but then, the bartender came back and put a tiny container of butter on the table. T opened it and then said, “Give me arm! Butter moisturizes and stop itching. Your skin is dry.” It seemed logical to me. When I was a kid my mother always put butter on any burn wound. I handed my arm over to T. He grabbed my left wrist and began to put butter all over my left arm. In the mean time, he began to tell me a random story.

“You know what you do if you want pure cocaine?” he asked. I had been telling him a story about cocaine earlier. It was almost 30 minutes later that he had finally responded. That’s how he was. He kept going as I was getting slathered in butter, now on my right arm, “you put some in a shot glass and put some alcohol in it. Microwave it, and you have pure crystal. Then, you have choice to smoke or shoot it. We went golfing and I got an eight ball. That’s the only way I can golf” That was my cocaine education that I received this weekend at the track. Good to know, I thought. Those were the kind of random stories that I got from T. His stories humbled me, and made my stories sound G rated.

I walked over to the bar, and instead of going to my usual place (where the servers went) I decided to park myself next to one of the regulars to order. “MARGARET! How about them cowboys!” he said, before he hugged me. He was an older, bald man who loved the cowboys and always wore cowboy t-shirts. I hugged him and then he asked what everyone at the track asks each other, “you winnin’?” “No, I’m just here donating my money,” I told him. I ordered T his drink, “your highness said he would like a real drink” I said to our bartender. I brought it back to the table and sat down. When I looked over my right shoulder to watch a race, there was a guy who was getting up from the bar and said, “Hey, where have you been? How have you been?” I had no idea who he was, or at least, I didn’t remember him. He seemed to know exactly who I was. He was kind of creepy looking, but I said, “Hey, there you are! Where have you been? It’s been a long time!” I forced myself to smile while I said it. He came over and hugged me, “How are you?” he asked again. “Oh, you know…just a little bit older and a little bit fatter” I joked. “Oh no, you look great. Where have you been?” he asked. I sort of used T as a boyfriend figure and said, “I don’t usually come here when he’s not here.” I gestured my head over to T. That scared him back to his bar seat. I went back to the table and said to T, “T I don’t even know who that is.” He didn’t say anything and just looked into his form.

Not five minutes later, the Dallas cowboys fan came over and started talking to me again. He threw a ticket in front of me on the table. It was a $20.00 win, place, show ticket for a race. “There you go,” he said, “Now you should be good for the day,” and then he went into a different conversation out of the blue, “you know I retired…I bought a new Sonic, do you know what that is? I can drive it to Florida, it’s got good gas mileage” he said. I liked him, but I wasn’t interested in his conversation. I listened patiently, nodded and smiled, and then he went away. But, he came back. I don’t even remember what he was talking about the next time. I must have had three glasses of wine by then, and I was consumed with my texting still. Finally, he walked away from the table, and T and I were alone again. “You fucking famous” he said bitched to me while looking down at the racing form.

At the next table over, there were two other regulars. The younger of the two tried to intervene and get my attention while T had his chair slid over next to me trying to teach me his new betting ‘system.’ I gave him a half hug and looked up, “I’m getting schooled here. Give me a minute,” I said. He just walked away. T was telling me about the cost of the horses and who trained them as a strategy to make better picks.

After T was done, I turned around and gave him some attention. He was an older man. May be in his fifties. He was Hispanic, dark skinned, heavy set, balding, and he wore Buddy Holly glasses. When I gave him my attention, he stood up and asked for a real hug. I hugged him and he said, “I could pick you up.” He meant lift me up, but I made an innuendo, “No, it takes a lot to pick me up. I’m tricky,” I told him, and laughed. I didn’t really mean anything by it. I just thought it was something funny to say. The older man sitting with him said, “So, that means he has a chance?” he asked, laughing. “Is that how you men think?” I asked back. “Yup” he laughed. “There aren’t any chances over here.” I confirmed.

When I say hot by default, it sort of sounds arrogant. The idea behind that statement is that most of the places that I go, there are minimal women, and I’m usually just the youngest one there. Therefore, hot by default. Men seem to be drawn to youth. I don’t claim to have anything special, by any means.

“You got any money?” T asked. “Nope. I’m poor this week” I said. I thought about it for a minute and said, “Oh wait, I have $80 in the car. It’s emergency money.” “I don’t want to go to stupid ATM machine, it charge six bucks to take money out” he complained. I didn’t say a word. I dug in my track bag for my car keys, and I walked outside to my car to get the money. I came back in and threw it onto his racing form along with the $10 that I had in my pocket. He straightened out the folded money and got up to make a bet. I watched him walk over to the cashier, but the lines were too long, so he went to one of the machines. I turned my attention back to my phone, and my concentration was broken by T shouting, “Missed the bet. Fucking folded money you gave me, machine wouldn’t take it. We could have won over $600 on that bet!” he bitched. I just laughed at him. Now, it seems like T is an asshole, but it’s all really in good fun. His complaining was mostly sarcastic and not serious. Anyone who knew him, knew that, and just laughed at his ‘displeasure.’ In a weird way, his complaining was almost a sign of endearment.

I didn’t stay much longer after I gave him the money. He bet a race, won, and he and gave me his loan back. “Here, you cash this ticket and keep it all. It with interest” he told me. I went to the cashier and cashed the ticket. It cashed out for $145.00. I gave the cashier a $5 tip. “Thanks Bonnie!” I said. “No, thank you Margaret,” she said. I went back to the table to count out his winnings to him and he insisted, again, without looking from his racing form, “No, I said you keep it.” “Okay, thanks T,” was all I could say.

I started to say my good bye’s and hugged the regulars. “You going already?” one of them asked. “Yeah, I need to go to a Father’s day BBQ,” I was lying. I had just enough wine in me to be able to get home. I wanted to go home and have a nap. “I’ll get you a drink. Stay,” another regular said. It was tough to turn down free drinks, but I had to. “T, I am going to go because…” I got cut off. “You don’t need to explain nothing to me. If you need to go, just go. Do what you need to do,” he said. “Okay then, I’m going to go. Thank you,” I said as hugging the little Asian man good bye. And, then, as quick as I went in, I was gone.