Chapter Four



Cover Design by Jeffrey L. Linthicum



     I'm not sure how medically sound it is to slap someone who has just passed out, but that is exactly what I awoke to.

     "Is he with you?" Someone asks. "Should we call 911?" From another.

     I open my mouth to protest, but nothing comes out. I decide to start small and open my eyes. Four people are looking down at me. I am slightly comforted to see that one of them is the handsome, long-haired stranger that climbed into my car, just a few minutes before.

     "Are you okay?"

     "Do you need an ambulance?"

     I make up my mind to pull myself out of this ridiculous haze and sit up. I can feel a throbbing lump rising on the back of my head and I rub it.

     "I'm fine," I finally offer. "But, could I get some water?"

     The long-haired stranger dashes away and the remaining three individuals help me to my feet. I am gingerly escorted to a bar stool where I am deposited and then scrutinized from a distance.

     "I'm so sorry," I say, "I've never passed out before."

     Feeling a little more 'myself' by the minute, I am struck by the oddness of the threesome standing before me. One is clearly the person that entered the bar just after me. Still dripping from the soaking rain, he is in his late forties, heavyset and completely devoid of hair. None on his head and no eyebrows or lashes. In one hand, he is tightly clutching the handle of a massive, rolling suitcase and in the other, he is carrying an elaborate wig mounted on a Styrofoam head, shrouded in a clear, dry cleaning bag.

     The second member of my rescue party is a well-built, Hispanic man with a hint of graying hair at his temples and a cleft in his chin that you could easily wedge a matchbook into. He is the shortest of the group, but is clearly the most formidable. Despite a bulky, black turtleneck, you can tell that he is muscled and rugged. His wide stance, five o'clock shadow and crossed arms reinforce his authority.

     The third member is a young, painfully thin black boy, stripped to the waist. His head is covered tightly in a pair of suntan-colored pantyhose, the legs and feet of which hang over his shoulders like long, droopy, brown, bunny ears. He is also devoid of visible hair, but the beginnings of an elaborate eyebrow are lightly sketched above one eye.

     "You all get to the dressing room," the leader orders, waving them away dismissively with one hand. The two drag queens look me over suspiciously before sauntering slowly away.

     "If he passes out again, I have a dildo and a video camera in my bag," says the queen carrying the wig. They both laugh and disappear through a curtained doorway behind the bar, whispering and giggling as they go.

     As soon as we are alone, I begin a rambling explanation of the events leading up to my mortifying faint, dropping every name I can think of that might lend me some credibility. Within a few minutes, I have managed to divulge the bulk of my life story. When he finally seems satisfied that I am not drunk, crazy or internally wounded, I relax a little, but my cheeks still burn with embarrassment.

     "I'm Javier," he says offering a fur-covered, firm hand with chewed nails. "Why don't you sit here for a minute, get your bearings, and I'll be back to check on you in a bit, okay?" His voice is a velvety growl with the faintest Latin accent. I melt a little when he smiles and walks away.

     The dimly lit bar stretches out before me and, for the first time, I am able to survey my surroundings. Jesse's Place is roughly the size of two single-wide mobile homes slammed together side by side and with about as much design consideration. A shoddily constructed wall of archways separates the space precisely in half from end to end. Every surface is drenched in high-gloss, battleship gray paint and covered with handmade posters and neon beer signs. Millions of staples, the tattered remains of posters still lodged in their teeth, litter every wall. The room on the side of the wall where I am sitting is dominated by a long, well-worn, Formica-clad bar and is bordered by a hodgepodge collection of black, vinyl bar stools in various states of disrepair. A bartender and a bar back busy themselves behind the counter. A well-rehearsed flurry of glassware stacking, ice toting, lemon and lime cutting and money counting, keeps both of them too busy to pay me any attention.

     I get up from the bar stool to test my stability and meander through one of the archways. The adjacent room, which is actually two steps lower than the first, is largely an empty space. As my eyes adjust to the darkness, I notice a small, hastily-constructed DJ booth at one end. The only other discernible feature is a modest mirror ball suspended from the center of the ceiling. While I'm gazing at it, the mirror ball sparks to life, lit by a single blue light. Thousands of pin lights appear, splashed on every surface, and slowly begin to rotate as the mirror ball motor trudges to life.

     "You feeling better?"

     For the second time tonight, a booming voice from nowhere. I catch on a little quicker this time. I see the long-haired stranger fiddling around in the DJ booth. He is talking into a handheld microphone. His smoky voice fills every corner with surprising clarity.

     "Yeah, thanks. God, I'm so embarras..."

     Before I can finish, the club's sound system roars to life. A bump and grind R&B song, smoother than a cashmere blanket, envelopes me from everywhere at once. The effect of the spinning pin lights and the amazing acoustics is surprisingly transporting. I get lost in the sensation for a minute. Until, through the window to the DJ booth, I catch a brief glimpse of the long-haired stranger peeling out of an A&M sweatshirt. Underneath, his hairless bronze torso is toned and athletic looking. He frees his hair from a rubber band and deftly slides on a white tank top with one hand while turning off the small, gooseneck lamp that illuminates the turntables with the other. I am yanked back to reality when I realize he is approaching me in the darkness.

     "So," he says, stopping so close to me that I can smell his piny cologne, "did you ever get that water?" He subtly shifts his weight to one hip and begins to re-tie his hair into a ponytail. With his arms raised, his torso forms a perfect 'V' shape and I can see his tiny, brown nipples through his thin, white cotton shirt."

     "I did not." I say robotically. I feel as though I have been caught doing something but I am not sure what. "I'm Jack, by the way," I add, more warmly and with a smile for the first time.

     "I'm Jessie," he says, continuing to fiddle with his hair.

     "Jessie. As in Jessie's Place Jessie?" I ask, pointing at the floor? "Like, the Jessie?"

     "The one and only," he says, gently guiding me by the small of my back, through an archway to the bar area where I started the evening.

     "Nice to meet you, again." I say when we are far enough from the music to hear each other better.

     "Again?"

     "Well, yeah, you got in my car outside. By mistake."

     "Oh, yeah!" He says as if remembering a detail from a distant, hazy memory. A broad smile breaks out across his face and he leans in close to my ear. "Sammy has the good shit." He finishes with a dramatic snort through his nose, steps back, lets out a loud "Whoop!" and then breaks into hysterical laughter. While I am still reeling from the display, he steps up onto a bar stool, onto the bar top and then drops to the floor behind it with a loud thud. The busy bartender snaps to attention.

     "What the fuck Jesse?!" The bartender screams.

     "Now calm down Princess, I'm just getting my friend a water," Jesse says, rooting through a giant cooler under the counter.

     "Stay out of my beer box, Jesse!" The bartender screeches and runs to the cooler, slamming it shut on Jesse's arm. Jesse slowly retracts his arm and then comically raises both arms into the air like a thief caught in the beam of a policeman's flashlight.

     "Well, if it's Jesse's Place, doesn't that make it Jesse's beer box?" I say, laughing.

     "Hardly!" The bartender barks at me. "You know the rules Jesse!" He reaches into the cooler, slams a bottled water in front of me on the bar and lays out his hand with the palm up. "That'll be one dollar."

     Jesse reaches into his front pocket and extracts a mess of one dollar bills. He gingerly lays two of them in the bartender's hand and then flips him off directly in his face.

    "I hate you," the bartender says with a soft sneer before wiping a boot print from the counter and returning to his task at the far end of the bar.

     "What was that all about?" I ask, cracking open the water and taking a sip.

     "They all hate me because they either want me, or they want to be me," he says loudly enough for the bartender to hear. The bartender offers him a middle finger in return, but never looks in our direction. I realize that this banter is familiar between them.

     "So, what was that all about?"

     "Yes. What was that all about?" Asks a voice from behind me. I turn and discover that Javier has returned. He takes the bar stool next to mine. He eyes Jesse in a way that demands an actual explanation.

     "I was just getting this guy a water and Princess down there," he says, nodding in the bartender's direction, "gets all pissy and loud!"

     "But you aren't supposed to be behind the bar," Javier says calmly.

     "Whatever. It was water. You're such a dick." With that, he leans against the back counter behind the bar, crosses his arms over his chest and visibly sulks.

     At this point, I am confused by the hierarchy of the bar and want very much to be anywhere else.

     "Why can't the owner be behind his own bar?!" I wonder to myself.

     We sit in silence for what seems like a month. Suddenly, Jesse lets out an exasperated sigh, hops up onto the bar, down onto a bar stool and drops to the floor with a thud again.

     "I'm outta here," he says to no one in particular and strides off to the far side of the bar, headed for the DJ booth. Javier makes no move to follow him. Instead, he swings back around to face the bar, drops his head into his hands and laughs dryly.

     "Gotta love him," he says quietly.

     "I think I might," I say jokingly, taking another sip of my water.

     "Well, don't get too attached. He's my boyfriend."

     I choke a little on my water. Javier laughs. I laugh too, but I'm not sure why. Truth be told, I'm a little disappointed to discover that both of the only attractive gay men I have met in Mecca are taken. And by each other, no less. I turn to Javier to apologize, but he stops me before I can say anything.

     "Don't worry. I get it. He's beautiful," he says with a grin.

     I sip my water quietly, fearful that I will embarrass myself further.

     "Now, let's get out of the way and let these boys get finished setting up."

     "Finished setting up what?" I ask.

     "The bar."

     "What do you mean set up?" I ask, looking around. "What are they setting up for?"

     "To open the bar."

     I look at my watch and discover that it is just six minutes until eight. I turn red yet again. My entire foray into the club has happened before they have even opened.

Chapter Three

Cover Design by Jeffrey L. Linthicum

     When I enter Jesse's Place, wringing wet, I am standing in a very small vestibule, lit by a single, bare, red bulb. To the left of the door that leads into the bar is a framed mirror and I am relieved to have the opportunity to pull myself together before making my entrance. I toss my hair around a bit to try and revive it. I smooth out my favorite, black leather car coat and pop the collar up. I decide this is too much and fold the collar back down. I suck in my gut and then let it out several times, reviewing this pointless act from every angle in the mirror. I toss my hair some more. I decide my shirt needs to be re-tucked, so I loosen my belt, unfasten my jeans and drop them just past my hips.

     "I need to see some identification please," a voice booms from nowhere.

     I look around for the source of the voice to no avail. In the dim red light, I can only make out the framed mirror, the doors and... the reflection of me with my pants undone. I am frozen like an idiot.

     "Just hold it up to the window please. Er... uh... your I.D. I mean," the voice adds. You can tell the individual is trying not to laugh.

     I am appalled to realize that I have been preening into a two-way mirror and God only knows who, or how many people, have been watching me re-enact my morning bathroom rituals. I fumble with my jeans and belt, trying to redress and remove my wallet from my pocket simultaneously. My pants fall to my knees in the process and I drop my wallet. I can now actually hear muffled laughter through the walls of the entryway. Just as I bend over to retrieve the wallet, the outside door to the street and the inside door to the club are both flung open violently. I quickly stand up and fasten my pants.

     Some odd combination of the red light, the rush of blood to my face that accompanies this brand of embarrassment and the vacuum created by the simultaneous opening of the two doors, causes me to do something I have never done before. I pass out cold and slump to the floor.

Chapter Two

Cover Design by Jeffrey Linthicum

     Lang College's catalog boasts an intimate, modern campus nestled in the quaint town of Mecca, Texas. I had learned from my job-seeking peers not to trust the glossy booklets that America's colleges and universities publish to promote themselves, so I wasn't expecting much. But, arriving there on a sweltering August afternoon in 1990, I was pleasantly surprised.
     Preston Lang, one of Mecca's early Mayors, created the liberal arts school in the 1950's as an alternative to Texas A&M University. At that time, you were not welcome at A&M unless you were a white male interested in learning mechanics and farming taught in a strict, military environment. In stark contrast, aesthetics were the main course of study at Lang and I loved the idea of being submerged in a culture that appreciated beauty for beauty's sake. I was eager to settle in and see the city, so on the first Monday after my arrival, I accepted an offer to tour the town.

     My 'tour guide' was a student named Jill Garrison, a gorgeous 22-year-old Senior at Lang, who was majoring in architecture. Her small stature, elfin features and lilting, West Texas accent belied an aggressive, good-ole'-boy persona that made me feel like a failure as a man. After fiddling with the wires beneath the hood of her well-worn, topless, white Jeep, the engine roared to life. She climbed into the driver's seat, reapplied a coat of pearly-pink Chanel lip gloss, tied her wheat-colored mane of hair into a messy knot and patted the passenger's seat - by way of inviting me to join her. I had barely fastened the seat belt before we rocketed into traffic.

     "So, what do I call you?" She asked, her hair whipping across her face as the thick, humid Summer air assaulted us from every angle.

     "Jack. Jack Wescott... well... Professor Wescott," I stammered, having never considered how I might be addressed by students that were, essentially, my age. I reconsidered using such a professional title. "Jack." I finally offered.

  "Where you from?" She half-yelled over a loud, passing truck.
     "Ohio!" I yelled back a little too loudly while casually glancing into the open, rear bed of the Jeep. An impressive collection of discarded paper coffee cups, a greasy toolbox, a pair of mud-crusted Timberland boots and a decimated Neiman-Marcus shopping bag, containing what I surmised to be a carburetor, littered the floor.

     "Well... keep that to yourself," she said. "Folks 'round here don't take too kindly to Yankees takin' a job in these parts."

  My eyes bugged a little at the notion that I might not be welcomed in this pleasant place. I immediately envisioned a mob of angry townspeople, wielding torches, picketing my duplex and waking each morning to discover 'YANKEE GO HOME' and 'PANSIES AIN'T WELCOME' spray-painted on my front door. Jill grinned, as though she could hear what I was thinking.

     "I'm teasing you!" She managed to mutter through gales of laughter. "Oh man! You should have seen your face!" With that, she cranked the volume on the Jeep's radio and drove, at break-neck speeds, toward the center of town. Janet Jackson's 'Escapade' blared the soundtrack of my dizzying introduction to Mecca, TX.

     Had I been giving the tour, I might have stopped to point out features of interest - impressive statuary, bronze plaques marking notable historic sites and century-old buildings. Not Jill. We shot through downtown Mecca like a runaway train. I had been gripping the Jeep's roll bar so fiercely that when we finally came to a stop in the gravel parking lot of a shabby restaurant on the West side of town, my hand was reluctant to let go and my forearm ached.

     "Here we are," she said, "the social hub of Mecca."

This 'hub' was a restaurant called Ruiz's Famous Mexican Grill and Bakery. I was not enthused. From our parking space at the rear of the building, I could see directly into the kitchen through a rotting screen door that was propped open by a broken, cinder block. As I clumsily climbed out of the Jeep, a kitchen employee - carrying an enormous stock pot - came to the door and nonchalantly dumped the green-ish, steaming contents of the pot onto the ground. I was not successful at masking my horror.

     "Come on Mister Fancy Pants," Jill said mockingly. "I promise you their tacos are to-die-for."

     I looked at my watch and then at her. "Tacos at nine in the morning?" I thought.

     She rolled her eyes at me and headed around the building to the front door. I followed, reluctantly.

     Ruiz's had seen better days, for sure. The expansive front windows, yellowed by grease and smoke, were covered with fliers, handbills and business cards - some dating as far back as 1987. The hand-painted sign above the front door was faded and peeling and streaks of rust, trailing from the bolts that precariously anchored the sign into place, ran down the building's facade and onto the sidewalk. Jill pulled open the front door and I was encouraged immediately by two things. The place was packed to the rafters with noisy diners and the aromas were intoxicating - familiar and exotic at the same time. I was suddenly starving. We took the only two remaining seats at a long, diner-style counter.

      "Two carne guisada tacos and two coffees!" Jill hollered to a waitress at the far end of the counter. The coffees materialized almost instantly, followed quickly by two red, plastic, woven baskets, lined with waxed paper. Each contained a tinfoil-wrapped log the size of my foot. I watched as Jill opened the foil and a puff of steam wafted out. I followed suit. Inside, I found a flour tortilla filled with a foul-looking, brown gravy and large chunks of unrecognizable meat.

     "Just eat it," Jill said, noting my disgust and rolling her eyes again.

  I picked the taco up tentatively. It was heavy, blazing hot and dripping from both ends and I had no idea how to approach the first bite. I watched as Jill turned her head to the side and attacked the behemoth as a shark might attack an unsuspecting swimmer. My graceless attempt to mimic her technique failed miserably and searing, hot gravy dribbled through my fingers and down my arm. I didn't care. I would have happily bathed in the savory, stew-like concoction after that first bite. I closed my eyes, oblivious to the velvety-smooth mess running down my chin, and devoured the remainder as if I hadn't eaten in weeks.

    "I told you." Jill said smugly.

I decided at that moment that I adored her.

For the next hour, we sat at the counter at Ruiz's, drinking coffee, gossiping and laughing with an endless stream of customers who stopped to chat with Jill. She seemed to know everyone and, incredulously, introduced each of them to me by name. With each encounter, a new tidbit of Mecca's past, present or future revealed itself. After an hour, I felt as though I had pieced together a better portrait of this intriguing little town than any scenic car ride ever could have.

     I learned that Mecca's 60,000 residents are largely descendants of migrant laborers that flooded the area in the 1870's, when the Texas Legislature approved funding for the construction of the Agricultural and Mechanical College of Texas - now known as Texas A&M University. Hundreds of impoverished and desperate families relocated here to serve as the tireless workforce that would help construct one of the first, and arguably finest, institutions of higher education in the state. Determined to build their own community and put down roots near a continued source of employment, the migrant workers ensconced themselves in a tent city near a fast-moving section of the Brazos River - a comfortable distance from the watchful eyes of their employers.

     As it became clear that the college would continue to grow and provide steady work, the residents began to form a concept for a permanent city. Using their newly acquired skills as stone masons, bricklayers, wood carvers, glass cutters and iron workers, the laborers created Mecca - from scratch. Each early building, regardless of it's utilitarian use, was designed to showcase the craftsmanship and artistry that these proud people had learned while toiling in the blazing Texas sun. The pride in this achievement is evident to this day. In the older downtown area, every tile, brick, window and archway, every sidewalk, lamppost and flowerbed - is a masterpiece. Which is why they decided to call it Mecca - an important place for people to convene and pay homage to the beauty of arts and crafts.

      I also learned that my own neighborhood on the East side of Mecca, where I had rented half of a duplex house, features homes that were built in the 1970's by a builder who swindled the school and the city out of millions of dollars. And that Mecca natives refer to the area as 'Ciudad de Jovenes' or 'City of the Young'. One local even told me that Mecca-ites prefer corralling the artistically inclined students in that area, as they consider the majority of them to be, "a bunch of potheads and crazies." I made a mental note to review my lease and the cost of breaking it.

     I was also told to avoid the South side of Mecca entirely. Actually, a waitress offered this advice with some authority - as she lived there. She was vague about the details, but Jill later underscored the warning by regaling me with stories of gang violence, drug-smuggling rings, prostitution and murder. I was somewhat relieved to learn that since the Brazos River bisects the city just South of the downtown, there is a clear line of demarcation where the South side begins - a two hundred yard long structure called 'The Long Walk'. The bridge is actually named after a former founder, but has always been referred to as 'The Long Walk' by the poorer blue-collar workers that hiked across it every day. One old-timer told us that in the 1950's, 'The Long Walk' collapsed and a busload of school children perished there. Another claimed that while many have jumped from it in an attempt to end their own lives, amazingly, none have ever done so successfully.
    After our hour at Ruiz's, Jill and I made a wide loop through the West side of Mecca, which is largely industrial and dominated by businesses that service the oil and gas industry. We stopped only once there - to see Jill's favorite example of architecture in Mecca. Where the Brazos River hugs the West side of town, an eccentric member of the wealthy, local Lang family had tried, in vain, to harness the fast-moving water for the purpose of generating hydro-electric power for the city. The Art Deco-inspired design of the plant, the adjacent offices and the out-buildings was impressive. Dormant for over three decades, it was sad to see the beautiful place crumbling behind locked fences. Jill claimed the eccentric owner still lived inside, not unlike Willy Wonka, hermited away from the town that called him crazy. 

     We sped Northeast from there, through the upper class 'Heights' neighborhood. Jill pointed out the home of the Dean of Lang, the beautiful estates of several prominent local families and the glorious Lang Mansion on Live Oak Boulevard - a continuous assault of lush lawns, wide verandas and sparkling fountains that made me a bit jealous.

     Finally, we entered Lang College campus - and my heart skipped a beat. I felt perfectly at home almost instantly. The funky blend of mid-century modern structures, dotted with public art and the electric buzz that only a college campus can generate, made me excited and eager. I originally chose Lang College not for it's outstanding liberal arts program or beautiful setting, but rather for its distance from the hateful Winters of Ohio. Of the schools that were interested in hiring me, despite my lackluster grades and perfunctory letters of recommendation, Lang College was, simply, the furthest South. But being there, I knew that some divine connection had been made. That I would be a part of something special, during a special time and in a very special place.

     Late in the afternoon, Jill deposited me back at my home, dizzy with anticipation and feeling slightly euphoric.

     "Thank you so much Jill. It was - and you were - such a pleasure," I gushed.

     "The pleasure was all mine," she said. "You know, Mrs. Carlisle, the lady with the blue hair at Ruiz's this morning, said she thinks we'd make a cute couple."

     "Well, as sickeningly adorable as it would be for a couple to be named Jack and Jill, I have some bad news for you. I like boys."

     Jill giggled a little and gave me a wink. "It wasn't an invitation Professor Jack, I just thought it was cute."

     I blushed with embarrassment. But since the ice had been broken and Jill seemed unbothered by my confession, I couldn't help but ask a question that had been burning in my mind all day.

     "There wouldn't happen to be a gay bar in Mecca, would there?" I stage whispered 'gay bar' for no apparent reason.

     "There is actually," she said plainly, "but I have some bad news for you."

     "What? It's closed? It's off limits to teachers? They play polka music?"

     "No. Well... they may play polka music, I've never been," she joked. "The bad news is... you'll have to cross 'The Long Walk' to get there."

     With that, she peeled out, leaving long black rubber burns on the pavement - Guns N Roses' "Paradise City" blaring loudly enough to be heard long after her Jeep was out of sight.

Chapter One

Cover Design by Jeffrey L. Linthicum

It occurs to me that I am being silly, but I continue to lay almost flatly reclined in the driver's seat of my white 1984 Chevrolet Caprice Classic - a hand-me-down from my mother. It is raining. It is cold. It is February, 1991.

   As cars approach, I can hear the hiss of radial tires on wet asphalt, sending a chill of fear and anticipation through me that feels not unlike that wonderful shiver that comes during a long overdue piss. Some puzzling combination of the rain-slicked street, the angled, rearview mirror and the passing headlights creates a three-inch wide strip of light, reaching from door to door. As cars pass, this band of light slowly sweeps across the ceiling of the car from the windshield to the rear window before it quickly snaps back to the windshield and then slowly fades away. I lay there staring at the ceiling of the car watching this trick of light and am amused by the sudden notion that I am laying inside of a giant Xerox copy machine.

   I am 24 years old, but I look 19. I have already decided to split the difference in my favor and claim to have just turned 21. This is just another of the long string of untruths that I have prepared in the unlikely event that I actually screw up the courage to go inside the only gay bar in the small town where I have just taken a job as an art teacher at a small, liberal arts college. I have been laying here in the car for well over an hour.

   I pull the handle that releases the seat back, quickly bolt upright and meet my own gaze in the rearview mirror. My eyes are probably my only noteworthy physicality. They are almond-shaped and peridot green with long, dark, chestnut brown lashes. On me, they are a pleasant discovery among a collection of average features: short barber-cut brown hair, freckly skin that tends to burn in Summer and a slightly doughy physique supported by a 6-foot frame.

   A rapid tapping on the passenger-side window nearly sends me through roof of the car.

   "Hey! Is that you Sammy?!"

   I squint to try and bring into focus the dark figure on the other side of the watery window.

"Hey!"

More tapping.

I turn the ignition switch and begin to lower the power window just as the door opens and a soaking wet stranger gets in and slams the door too hard. A surge of panic and fear is colored by excitement when the stranger slides back the hood of his jacket and reveals his face. He is only slightly older than me with shoulder length black hair, loosely tied into a ponytail at the nape of his neck. Wet hunks of it hang across his dark eyes and stick to his full, pink lips. A smile breaks out across his handsome face and seems to illuminate the car even after the interior light snaps off.

"Did I spook you?!" He says too loudly, laughs and then belches.

The smell of thick, dark liquor finds its way across the front seat and assaults my nose. I wince as if I've done a shot. He adjusts himself and tries to wipe the rain from his face. Each movement is slow and deliberate, as if he were being controlled remotely by a novice puppeteer.

"Did you get a new car?" he asks, petting the cracked dashboard and worn upholstery. "Business must be bad!" He laughs and belches again. When he finally makes an attempt to look directly at me, I notice that his eyes are red and watery and small globs of white goo coat the corners of his mouth. The realization that I am not Sammy washes slowly across his drunken face.

"Shit dude! Sorry! I thought you was Sammy!" he gushes. After a brief struggle with the hardware and a slurred series of barely audible curse words, he opens the car door and steps back out into the rain. He stops the door before it closes completely and pokes his head back in. "You comin' inside? I'll buy you a drink. Sorry man!" He slams the door too hard again.

I stare at the passenger seat vacated by the stranger and am compelled to touch the burgandy velour upholstery there. It is damp and slightly warm. Tangible confirmation of the odd exchange makes it seem even more surreal.

Pulling my jacket over my head, I step out into the icy rain just in time to watch as the stranger opens the passenger door of another white car just across the street. I hear the relief in his voice as he confirms that the driver is, in fact, the Sammy in question. As he prepares to climb into the car, he pauses, smiles at me and points to the bar.

"Meet me in there!" he yells across the roof of the car and disappears into the passenger seat. The solid vault-like sound of the door shutting makes me take stock of Sammy's car. It is a white 7-series BMW sedan.

"Business must be good," I think to myself.

As I cross the street and head toward the bar, I begin to consider the limited number of legal 'business transactions' that could possibly take place on a Friday night, in the front seat of an idling car that costs more than my yearly salary. I falter for a second. Everything about this feels wrong. But the brilliant smile of the stranger and the excitment of his invitation proves too strong to resist and I run across the street, dodging puddles and smiling like an idiot the whole way.