“So, where are you taking me to dinner?” I ask. This works more often that you would think. Failure, is just a laugh from the girl usually.
“Where would you like to go?” She’s a cute, razor thin redhead (not the one I mentioned in an earlier post) that’s almost thirty.
I smirk and mention a brew pub. She’s never been there and agrees.
The brew pub isn’t very full, we order nachos and beer, she’s looking for an IPA, but they don’t have one. She doesn’t want anything with too much of a chocolate flavor for a beer. I got a hard cider they brew.
“What’s the worst thing you have ever done.” She asks.
I shake my head, “No.”
“Come on.” She cajoles.
I look at her for a moment and then say very quietly, “When I was younger, I killed my best friend.”
I look away.
There’s an intake of breath and then she says, “Intentionally?”
I look back, “Does it matter?”
“I guess not.”
Then she launches into the worst thing she’s ever done which is sleep with her boyfriend’s brother. She wonders later if I made up the story of killing my best friend so it would be easier to reveal her dark secrets. I don’t answer that question.
The waitress is back. She’s a young blond, and although she’s very pretty now, her features will be hideous in twenty years.
We have several drinks, one of them comes in a huge glass goblet.
I look at the waitress and say, “You trying for a bigger tip?”
She looks a little embarrassed which tells me she probably hasn’t been a waitress for long, “No, I thought you’d like to be treated like a king.”
I look her up and down, “Do I get to keep the glass.”
“No.”
I give a mock sigh, “That doesn’t make me feel like I’m being treated like royalty.”
“Well, I guess you can take it with you.” She jokes.
The waitress leaves, I turn to the redhead. “She doesn’t think I’ll actually take the glass.”
The redhead doesn’t think I will either.
After she pays, I pick up the goblet and walk out. We get in my car. The redhead complains that I have made her an accessory to a crime. The irony of that statement will become apparent later.
We’re both heading to the next town for work, we don’t work together exactly, but my job connects tangentially with hers. I suggest she goes with me. She agrees.
We go to where her stuff is. There’s a couple work related matters I need to take care of, while she goes to get her stuff.
When I find her again, she’s stoned, or perhaps I should say that the chemicals in her system are percolating around and she will very shortly be messed up although she seems fine at the moment.
I don’t realize this when she’s loading up the car.
Like most women she has four bags, where a guy would only have one.
Now is a good time to mention that the redhead is an herbalist. As in, alternative medicine, as in she likes the green stuff. As in there are jars of the stuff now in the back seat of my car.
It’s ten-thirty, the roads are icy, I go to fill the car up with gas. The redhead is feeling her face. A lot. With really ginger fingers, like she’s exploring something new.
It’s cold and I spill gas on myself. I curse my bad luck. In a little bit, I am going to be praising Jesus for that little bit of bad luck, but I don’t know that then.
We’re off now down the dark snow covered highways and the redhead is a mess. She’s telling me she can’t find her face. She’s asking if the bushes by the road are cows.
My phone rings. It’s a client and she’s distraught about something I have absolutely no control over and even if there was something I could do about it, I sure as hell can’t do anything at nearly eleven in the evening. We’re going back and forth, my passenger is giggling, and I realize my client has probably been drinking, or else she’s batshit crazy.
I am speeding at this point.
89 miles an hour.
At least that’s what the cop tells me.
I am now thankful that the smell of gasoline is strong enough to cover the other smell in my car.
I just get a ticket and I am careful to keep to the speed limit from that point.
We finally get to the hotel, there’s a mix up with the hotel rooms. The night manager won’t give us one of the reserved ones that was supposed to be provided for me.
The redhead has collapsed into a chair in the lobby. I finally say to the woman, “Look, I don’t care what the policy is, one of those rooms is supposed to be mine, my wife there is pregnant and exhausted and I want the room.
She gives me the room and I take my faux pregnant fake wife that is so messed up she doesn’t recognize herself and pour her into one of the beds.
