“Sam,” I said,” it’s me.”

“Let me guess…”

“Well, what do you need done?  Anything?  Trade you a night’s work for a bottle.”

“Tell you what.  The dishwasher needs a night off and I wasn’t gonna give it to him.  But if you’ll come in…”

Yay.  Dishes.  I don’t wash the damn dishes at my own apartment.

“I’d love to wash your dishes, Sam.”

“Good.  Get your ass in here by 2:00 because it’s gonna be a big night – we got a singer comin’ in.  It’ll go late – like 2 in the mornin’.  Twelve hour shift, easy.” 

Twelve hours of slavery for a bottle of Sailor Jerry’s finest.  I could have scraped together enough change to go get a bottle of Mad Dog, I guess, but I had a yen for that effin’ rum and nothing else.  I owed it to myself to go get it.  And it wasn’t as if I felt like actually writing something else to send out to get another rejection slip that day.  So, sure.  Twelve hours.  Give me time to think.  About being a loser.  And the  faulty genetics that gave me verbal ability but ruined any chance I might be able to add and subtract well enough to be an accountant or actuary.

“Poor, poor pitiful me,” saith the Preacher.

After 6 hours, my hands were so painfully raw from the scalding water, the abrasive pads, and the detergent I wondered why I hadn’t gone and sold a few pints of blood, instead.  Or robbed the liquor store.

Sam walked by now and and again, smiling.  She’s about 6’1’’, a stunning raven haired knockout of a woman.  Very curvy.  That night I think she was about 6’6” because of the big, black cowboy boots and the supertight leather pants, black tee, nice, nonbra-restrained breasts cantilevered over the floor ahead of her.    She was a living version of a Bill Ward hypersexy pinup drawing.  How could I sum this up?  The woman defied gravity.  But she defied just about everything and everyone that got in her way.  She didn’t run one of the hottest restaurant/bar/music venues in the area by being a creampuff.