“What are you paying?”

She stopped walking and gave me a serious look.

“What do you want?”

I was so sleep deprived at that moment, I almost blurted it out – what I really wanted.

“Not sure,” I said instead.

“Well, let’s head up the road and you think on it a bit.  I’m pretty  sure somethin’ will come to mind.”

“But…”

“What, you’ve got some pressin’ business or somethin’?  You know, I talked to Sam about you….”

Oh, that was bad.  Sam’s brutally honest.  No doubt she told her what a mess I was. 

“Then I guess you know for sure I don’t have anything to do at the moment.”  In fact, I had nothing to do period.

“Well, c’mon.”  We were at her car.  “Let’s go.”

“Eileen,” I said softly, “I don’t think I’ve got the money… a hotel room, food.  Hell, I’m gonna have to pick up some clean clothes….”

“Get in the car,” she said solemnly, “before you talk yourself out of the best thing that’s ever happened to you, boy.”

And that’s how I drove Eileen to North Carolina and all her gigs since.  The pay’s nice.  Real nice, I promise you. 

But I do have to tell you this:  Later that morning after we checked into a hotel, as we prepared to enter the room I said, ”You know, red hair drives me wild.”

She grinned.

“Too bad, man.  It’s a dye job.”

I winced.

“You’re joking.”

“What,” she asked, incredulous, “do you think all girls from Ireland are redheads?  Most of us are brunettes.  I’m gonna have to take you on a tour, show you around one day.  You and your stupid American stereotypes….”

“So, why’d you color it, then?”

“Fills up the tip jar,” she winked.  “Got your attention, didn’t it?”

And so it did, and so it does.