Of course, any bundle of years will provide endless stories when you sleep seven (7) seconds from a bar. What follows is one of my favorites: 
It started when I saw her arguing with her boyfriend. She had strawberry-blonde hair and fine curves—the thickness but in great proportion. Her face was nice, not the best in the bar, but definitely something there. I saw her fighting with her boyfriend and lent the situation little attention, turning back to the bar and an argument I was ferociously engaged in with Brian Ezro over Depeche Mode being the most dangerous band of the 80s. He was from the school that thought not only Depeche Mode, but all who followed, were homo. Well I’m not homo. That would be too easy. I’d be getting it all over town. We were drunk and our voices were rising and I was nearing “heavy yelling” when the girl slid up next to me, her entire side touching mine. She ordered a Tom Collins.“Listen,” she said. “My boyfriend’s being a real jerk. Well he’s not even my boyfriend anymore. I just dumped him.” She was heavily intoxicated but quite coherent. “What I’m trying to say is will you pretend that you know me so he doesn’t come over here. He’s a big pussy, hates confrontation, and you’re a pretty big guy.”“Shucks, if I don’t love playing fake boyfriend. What’s your name?”“Lisa,” she said.We had a few drinks and Ezro and I cheered her up and by the time the freshly ex-d boyfriend approached I had forgotten him entirely.“You know this guy, Lisa?” he asked.“Of course,” I interrupted. “We went to high school together. My name’s Kober.”“Nice to meet you, Kober. I’m Damien. Where was it you went to school?”I muttered off the name of some local school that was in fact, not the one Lisa had attended. Damien was not pleased and told Lisa he would be leaving in ten minutes and that she should be ready. I had already told her that I lived next door and she had already agreed to my bed.“I’m staying.” She told him.“Fuck you then.” He said.“Easy with the language, Cochise,” I warned, turning my bar stool so my legs were almost wrapped around him. He did not know what to make of this, so he just gave Lisa the finger and stormed away.“So, it’s that easy?” I said to Lisa. “You’re just gonna come over and score me? Is that it?”“I’d count on it,” Lisa said.Brighton was bartending. He flashed the last call lights and hollered out those sad words. I told Lisa I had to take a piss and to order my last vodka soda. By the time I got back, she was nowhere. 
I walked outside where everyone had emptied out, still lingering, still looking for that last minute warm flesh to elongate the dry night. I looked down 7th Street and saw Lisa holding hands with Damien, her head on his shoulder.“Well, that was a taste of the weird,” I mumbled to myself. I made a vodka drink when I got home and for some reason was compelled to take a shower. I was drying off when I heard a knock at the door. I figured it was Lisa or some of Cole’s leftovers who hadn’t heard the news of his departure, so I made my way to the door in just a towel. What I saw was no woman. Instead, it may have been the sloppiest, most heavyset cab driver I have ever encountered. He had a tallboy Coors Light in a tight brown bag and he reeked of awesome.“Listen buddy, I got to tell you, this is the weirdest call I’ve ever been on. Some drunken girl demands that I pick up a Mr. Cobra from the apartment next to Che’s Lounge and bring him back to her address over on Martin.””Cobra? Do you mean Kober?”"Nope. The broad said ‘Cobra.’ She was FUBAR drunk, man.”“Did you say the weirdest call ever?”“That I did.”“Well I better go then. It’s my responsibility. Who am I to say no tothat? Let me get dressed. And the name is Kober, not Cobra.”The cabbie nodded and gave me a moment. I put on a fresh black t-shirt and a pair of black Dickies and my black Redwing boots—you never know when you might need a pair of sturdy, steel-toe boots, especially in an unstable social situation involving a potential rival; this guy Damien did not seem the type to back off. Plus, the entire situation with the cab was completely sketchy; but isn’t that the point of the passing lane? Always dashing toward the random? the next unpredictable?Inside the cab Morphine’s album Yes billowed from the speakers. I took this as a sign, a good one. Mark Sandman’s baritone voice and low tuned two-string bass always makes me feel invincible, puts me back into party mode.The wind had picked up outside and you could see the tall desert trees, few as they were, fighting back and forth, left to right in weird circles and hexagons. We pulled in front of the house on Martin, which was unsurprisingly across from an old redbrick two bedroom that a girl who secretly two-timed me for three years used to live in, the cunt. But coincidental location means nothing in Tucson. We all fall asleep listening to the same downtown train each night. I paid the cabbie and asked him to wait outside just in case things turned dark. He agreed. As I approached the door, I flipped off the safety on my pocket sized can of pepper spray and kept one hand concealed over the spray trigger. I rang the doorbell and waited. Dumbfounded, Damien answered the door. Apparently he and Lisa lived together. He told me apologetically that he couldn’t believe she had done this (calling the cab) and that it was not the first time alcohol had brought on such similar, rash behavior. I didn’t trust his calm and demanded to see Lisa to insure she was all right. He said that was impossible, that she had passed out and how I was not welcome in their home. For a second I thought of taking the jackal out or just bulldozing past him, but I never have been very fond of the police. This fight had nothing to do with me. I decided to yield.Back in the cab, I explained what had just went down. My cabbie leaned back and said, no joke, “It’s a tuff break, kid, a goddamntuff break. Let me take you home, kid; no charge.”