BMW. Mercedes. Cadillac El Dorado. Luxury cars. Perfect targets for the perfect plan. People with such cars buy up lots of insurance then go drinking at bars and that’s why I am back here lurking. Waiting. Knowing that it only takes one sucker to hit me then bang! Nothing more than some bumps and bruises to get me into a better financial bracket. Go ahead and write that insurance check out to me. Risk/reward I’m willing to take.
“Hey,” a female voice calls out from somewhere behind me, further back in the darkness of the parking lot, “yeah you, hey.” I turn to welcome a group of girls, lead by the loud one out front. “You got a light?”
I glance over towards the front door of the bar. Check to make sure I do not miss an exiting opportunity. All clear. I pull out my lighter and set flames to four Virginia Slims.
“Are you back here getting high too?” The question sends the gals into fits of laughter. The giggles make me realize how much this visit could interfere with my evening’s goal. I try to sneak away from the pack. The loud girl, the one out front, grabs me by the arm. Stares into my eyes.
“Are you getting high, man?” The serious tone in her voice silences her friends cackling. I readjust my own demeanor. Afraid I’ve been caught in the act. They have the numbers on me but I’m pretty sure if I move quickly, I can out speed them. Back in my car. Never come back to this place again. The girl can only hold it in for so long. She dies laughing. Her friends join along.
“You caught me girls,” I smile along, “but I caught you too.” We all laugh together then return to the bar, arm in arm. If I am not going to be successful getting run down by a car for some insurance money then I might as well have a few good moments with some pretty ladies. Girls that do drugs. After I succeed with my plot, I might just need something extra to take the pain away.
“So…what’s your story,” the leader of group, I have learned that her name is Andrea, asks me. We are all a few shots more inebriated; one round bought by each person in our party, another by a couple of guys at the bar. I got mine included by hiding under a wig one of the girls had stored in her purse, “always got to have a back up” she explained. It comes in handy again when the guys tried to join us at our table ending the visit feeling like a man feels flipping to the back of the Observer and falling in love with someone before realizing he turned to the tranny listings.
“Story? Oh, I don’t really have one.”
“Everyone’s got one. Except pedo’s and serial killers. Which one are you?”
“Well I guess maybe you will have to find out.” As soon as the words leave my mouth, I realize the implications by my smooth talk. “I mean, not find out. I guess you wouldn’t really ever find out if I was a pedophile, you know,” I stutter, “since you are a woman and don’t fit into that category.”
“Are you calling me old?” I am lost for words. “I’m kidding,” she says, “I get what you are saying but maybe you should stop trying to say it and tell me something else. How about what was your favorite shirt when you were eleven?”
My Texas Rangers jersey with Mcdowell stitched into the back of course. We talk for a while longer. Continue to drink. Long enough for Andrea to be comfortable coming home with me and me being comfortable enough allowing it.
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