Mi Casa Su Casa
Mi Casa Su Casa
Gentle wisps of breath tickle my nose. I nudge closer, lolling in euphoric recall. His breathing quickens along with my heart. A gust of grave worthy morning breath blows by, nearly killing the moment. I hold my breath, choose lust, scoot closer, reach toward the warmth of his…
But wait…
As of last week, I’m divorced. The love of my life crushed me in the most degrading, proverbial cliché way. Yep, you guessed it. The old run off with the hot, young secretary gig. With a name like Cookie, you get the picture—a bobble headed, perky blonde with goo-goo eyes and an AM voice. A platitude with perky breasts.
Confusion pushes euphoria off the scene. The last thing I remember is a conversation with Andrew, the bartender at The Ugly Dog Pub.
“Don’t worry about it Andrew. I’m Irish. We’re super human as long as we have fuel. So, line up another boilermaker. Okay?”
Inhaling quickly, I hold my breath again before the rancid fumes can pierce my nostrils. I’m about to lift my eyelids, when he snorts, spraying my face with eau de stench of death. Praying I’ll recognize the phantom breather, I lift one eyelid. Nothing in my 40 years of life prepared me for the next scene. I scream, catapult to a stand on the bed and scream again.
Standing next to the bed is a huge, black and white, dog, wagging his tail and panting like, “Hey, let’s play.”
“What are you doing here?” I yell.
(Tail wags).
I spin around on the bed trying to make sense of where I am and where the dog came from. He joins the fun. Then as if waiting for me to wake, three old, nasty friends announce their arrival-- nausea, head throbs and the whirlies. I fall back onto the bed. The dog follows my lead, laying his head in my lap. Calming myself and him, I scratch behind his ears. Not wanting to rile him up, I lean over him grabbing a brochure from the nightstand. It reads: MI CASA ES TU MOTEL DE LA CASA. Below that I think the translation would read: “The Place of Affordable Dreams, or possibly just “Cheap Dreams.” Then the scariest line of all-- Tijuana, Mexico. My body aches. Even my fingers hurt. My ring is cutting off circulation probably because of all the booze.
Wait, I don’t have a ring.
Desperate I ask the dog, “What have I done?
Again, with the tail wags.
I leap to my feet hearing a key turn in the door lock.
“Good morning Senorita Scarlett.”
The dog runs to greet the stranger at the door.
“Who are you?”
He laughs, handing me a Styrofoam cup of steaming coffee.
“Andrew?” I ask, realizing he looks different without his apron and vest.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, he takes my hand.
“Are you okay? You were pretty wiped out for an Irish super being.”
Extending my other hand, the one with the gold band, I ask.
“Did we… are we… married?”
“What!? Good grief no. I slept on the sofa. Don’t you remember? You were going on about giving up men for good and getting a dog. My friend Marcos over-heard you at the bar. He said he knew a dog that needed a home but it was in Mexico with his brother’s family. Remember?”
“No.”
“Yeah, you got all crazy and insisted I drive you over the border to pick up the dog. Marco called his brother. You gave him $200 bucks. Remember?”
“Well, what about the ring?”
“Oh yeah. You bought that for $50 from Marco’s niece. It’s just tin. You said you wanted to make the relationship with Flavius official.”
“Who the hell is Flavius?”
“The dog. Remember?”
“No.”
“You said he needed a powerful, regal name because of the white fur cape God designed for him.”
During the ride back over the border to Chula Vista, Andrew entertained himself and Flavius with stories of my forgotten escapades. I will be finding a new hangout. Since learning I imitated the entire brass section from a Herb Albert Tijuana Brass song, without the aid of—well, brass, or… music. I’d say he was making it up but that song has been stuck in my head
I’m relieved I’m single. Well, sort of single. I own a big regal dog named Flavius who is winning me over with snorts and slobber. And, I’m giving up Boilermakers, my personal liquid kryptonite.