I shoud've told the bartender to tie me to the last working pay phone.
But I didn't. I let her introduce herself. Sadie, she said, like The Beatle's song.
I'm hard to forget, so I asked, What's your motto?
She breathed in reverse. She looked at the door. She was past mottos.
It was Josh, right?
Yeah.
Let me tell you something. I'm the bad, **** ***** that's gonna wreck your health.
And she did.
Every weekend for 105 weekends. I opened her up like a paycheck.
I spent her on a big brass bed.
I spent her on glass tile.
I spent her on the kitchen island.
The Japanese table.
The water lily pond.
Her brother Frank or Gary or Marvin---some American classic---kept us
horizontal with white whiskey from his personal still.
Personal still.
And there is a house in New Orleans,
but there's another one in Colorado Springs,
one you should be wary of.
I shoud've told the bartender to tie me to the last working pay phone.
But I didn't. I let him tell me about his dream. My name is Jack, he said, as in Jumpin' Jack Flash.
Like the Rolling Stones' song?
Like the Stones' song, man.
You were in it.
Four white girls shared one mic. Karaoke night.
You were in my dream. Are you listening to me? I'm gonna say it anyways.
I only had one eye, but I could see you. Seen you plain as day.
You were scared of me. As you should be. We were on the coast.
No, I don't know which one. I saw that thought on your forehead.
It was a dream. Anyway, you were holding a pen. A giant pen.
And I asked for your name.
I lifted my drink from the makeshift napkin coaster. Pulled a pen out of my coat pocket.
Straightened out the napkin. I scribbled Nobody. Handed it to him. And aimed myself toward the interstate.
I shoud've told the bartender to tie me to the last working pay phone.
But I didn't. She had one helluva an afro. Her name was Katrina, not like any song, like the hurricane.
My skin tastes a little like coffee, Katrina said.
I like coffee.
You wouldn't like me.
Probably not. But I've been lost in this bar forever. I could change my mind.
No, sweetie. Forever ain't that long. Just ask my ex-husband.
Katrina paid for her drink. Asked me if I'd like the change.
Yeah, I'll take it.
I called my buddy Chris back in Oklahoma, but he didn't answer.
I called my buddy Ben back in Oklahoma, but he didn't answer.
Sam. Sarah. Brooks. Nothing. Silence.
Barkeep (I always wanted to say it), I don't think your phone is working.
It works. You gotta remember kid. You're on Rocky time.
There's an hour, every night,
where you're the only person you know that's awake.