Season 2 Chapter 18

The sign atop the diner just off highway 246 touted itself the home of the Lompoc Rockets, which must have been a point of civic pride. I was alone in the joint save Dinah, the young waitress and the line cook, who looked as though his name should be Arnie. A trio of guys who had been loitering for as long as I had just left, looking at me with the same inquisitive caution I had offered them. It was back to tinkling rain, downgraded from pissing for the last two hours.

I don’t particularly like traveling this neck of the woods when it’s raining on account of a particularly unpleasant experience I had long ago on the road leaving Santa Cruz. My friend Don Berkelwood and I went up there to visit our pal Yodis. It was charmingly illicit, and at some point Don convinced me we ought to cut our evening short and head back home. Normally that’s no problem when you’re around the corner from your place, but this was a few hundred miles…and still, after midnight, this seemed like a good idea to us.

We had not counted on two things. The first was an unexpected traversal of Highway 1, the result of our inability to correctly navigate to the 101, which would have been a smooth, simple drive instead of the winding, scenic cliffside coastal route we were on. The other was a storm system that rolled in, drenching the road. The two lane, ill lit, winding, cliffside coastal road. In the middle of night we drove, hoping to navigate those twists and curves without careening off the road in the pouring darkness. That was 100 miles of white knuckle travel I never want to recreate or relive.

So even with less treacherous road ahead, I decided to linger until there was no longer any hint of downpour to before leaving the central coast area.

Dinah bussed the now vacant table, and then came over to see if I needed a fresher cup of coffee.

“I can get you an apron if you want to stay longer…have you do some dishes,” she remarked.

“”Are you closing or throwing me out? Or are you just flirting?”

“Those are my two options?”

“So far…”

“You’re not from around here,” she added obviously.

“I see it’s ‘flirting’ then…”

“Play it cool and it may be,” smiled and went back to the counter area. She brewed a new pot and returned with a new cup of hot coffee.

“What’s this in-between,” she inquired, brushing a blond lock behind her ear.

“Pardon?”

“Here. What is this in-between? You’re gone when the weather clears…what’s your story?”

“You are most definitely flirting,” I accused her. “And I accept.”

“Oooh, you’re gonna be disappointed. I don’t know if you can handle a broken heart at your age.”

I countered, “I’ll have you know that I’m at least five years younger than you think I am. Those other guys more your type?”

“I don’t date musicians.”

“Those guys were musicians? They looked like roofers…they’re closer to my age than yours.”

“Could be,” Dinah said, “but they’re a band. Seen ‘em in Santa Barbara and SLO once or twice. Not bad, but not motivated enough to make it. Even if they didn’t have some kids, they wouldn’t be going anywhere. Small towns can sometime be the biggest black holes.”

“I know what you mean. I used to see quite a few. But isn’t that what makes them quaint and homey?”

“If that’s what small towns mean to you. You’re not a salesman. Why’d you travel so much?”

“Used to be in television. Got to ‘see the countryside’, as they say. Now I spend a few minutes here and there just talking to people.”

“I hope you’re not a comedian,” she said seriously. It made me laugh.

“No, right now I do speaking engagements. Y’know, motivational and educational stuff. Students, companies…prisoners. My name’s Sheldon,” I introduced myself, extending my hand.

“Really, the comedian thing isn’t your strong point,” she said as she gave a soft courtesy shake,” Sheldon.”

It got chilly, even though the door wasn’t open. Outside, the rain picked up, as though break time was over.

Dinah slid into the opposite side of the booth with her own cup of coffee and sized me up for a moment. “So, Sheldon, why so glum?”

Was it that obvious?

“No,” she replied, “but I just have a sense about people. Comes from being an artist.”

“A bullshit artist?”

“More like rendering. Painting. Some graphic design. Little touch up?”

I nodded and she fetched the glass urn off the warmer to top us both off. “And yet you’re here playing coffee queen of Lompoc.”

“Yep, I create art, and read people, but mostly I’m an ambassador of java.”

“Nice work if you can get it,” I added. “But, yes, perhaps I am a shade less than sunny.”

“Old lady?”

“The oldest. Mother went to move in with the infirm aunt, but she fell of the wagon. Spent a good two hours talking her situation over with her the my car before I came in until she finally convinced me that she was still on the mend and that I needn’t worry even though my aunt was totally unsure how to deal with it. Then there’s one of my colleagues, who I’ve got the hots for, and even when her divorce is finally over, I doubt she is looking to get a new dad for her daughter right away. I don’t even know if I’m up for it. And I can’t even get into the story about one of my former best friends that I haven’t spoken to since I nearly murdered his career and put mine into limbo. But other than that, things are okay.”

Dinah put her cup down the table and leaned in, looking me square in the eye. “If he goes into the walk-in freezer,” she gestured with a nod of her head towards “Arnie” in the kitchen, “I’ve give you a handie under the table.”

I glanced over to see him with his back turned, watching a small black and white TV perched high in a corner, and looked back at Dinah, who was still looking right at me.

“Perhaps not, Sheldon…guess I’m not going to get as big a tip.” Dinah frowned and sniffled, busting my balls.

“No, I’ve got one for you…get your shit together and stop wasting your time here.”

“Gee, thanks,” she smiled in an overdone manner.

“Really. You talk a good game, but all you’re ever going to do is make somebody’s cup of coffee a little more interesting. That all you’ve got to offer?”

She softened up at my calling her out, but said nothing and bowed her head a little.

“How old are you, Dinah?”

“Just about to turn 20.”

“Married?”

“No.”

“Kids?”

“NO!”

“Sick parents? Crippled sibling? House arrest?”

“Uh, no.”

“We’ll, other than being a touch impressed by yourself, there’s no reason why you can’t do whatever the hell you want to do. Because being a diplomat for coffee is really not a career move.”

“The truth,” she began to admit,” is that I don’t want follow my dreams and then have them crushed and fail.”

“So this is safer? Easier?”

“In a way,” Dinah clumsily defended herself.

“Look,” I told her, trying to sound wise without that stern parental tone that makes people tune out, “I’m a grade A, number one, top flight asshole. And that’s not an apology. I’ve been pissing people off and making friends out of enemies - and sometimes enemies out of friends for longer than you’ve been around. For the most part, it’s been fine, but I have done and said and behaved in ways that I couldn’t just brush aside. So never mind that that’s one of the reasons I’m here and not doing blow with Russian supermodels in a corporate jet headed to St. Barts.”

“So if I’m an asshole, as you say, I’m going to kill my dreams?”

“No…I’m saying that despite the fact that I can be, I still did what I wanted and wasn’t disappointed. I’m as much a victim of my success as I am my failure, but you can’t really have one without the other. And you can’t be afraid of that.”

“Which? Succeeding? Or screwing things up,” she asked.

I thought about that for a second. “Maybe both.”

In my satchel I fished around in the pockets until I found a stack of cards bound with a rubber band, and separating one from the group.

“There’s a guy who I met once or twice at our company…Amos, he does the same thing but his main gig is making art. I’m sure my boss would be glad to ask him to take a few minutes and chat you up about options and direction. It’s probably better coming from someone in the same field than what I have to say.” I handed her the card with the agency number on it. “Just gimme a few days to get it together.”

“Wait…Amos Staley?”

“Um…yeah, that’s him.”

“Oh shit,” she gushed, “he’s like one of my favorite artists! And you know him? No way!” She lost about a decade and was excited like unwrapping the Barbie dream house on Christmas.

“Is he any good?” I had no idea. Nice guy but a little odd.

“Uh, yeah! He and Banksy and Damien Hirst are probably the most popular underground artists right now.”

“They anything like Thomas Kincade?”

“That motel room quality landscape garbage? I don’t think so!” Dinah was right. Kincade was garbage, which I knew even without much background in art.”

“So that’ll maybe get you going and consider pursuing art a little harder?”

“Yes! Thank you so much Sheldon.”

“You’re welcome, Dinah.”

She flashed another guilty smile. “It’s Katerina,” as she grabbed the nametag on her pocket. “Dinah from the diner just sounded funny to me.”

It amused me. “Okay, you’re welcome…Katerina.” We smiled and sipped our coffee.

“So…what’s the cook’s name?”

---

The Talking Heads convention arrived unnaturally fast, making the days and weeks fly past nearly faster than my recollection. If the first month or so getting acclimated to working at Tanner was 1st or 2nd gear, the time since then was cranking in 7th – it just whipped by. The status quo had something to do with that, driving on auto-pilot as things settled comfortably into being routine, which was something I was not used to. I was adapting, but the traveling and frequency was nothing like what the show demanded. I thought it would be boring, but life had become comfortable.

Mother was still making Aunt Tilly nuts once in a while, but I found out that she was doing it more to inject a little fire into Tilly when she would get start getting depressed and unresponsive. I told her it wasn’t the proper motivator to shake Tilly from her downturns, but it was the only thing that got Tilly to snap back to focus by taking care of my mother and having to mind the benders. A pyrrhic victory is still a victory, I guess.

Carla was still the object of my affection, even though she had me strongly parked in the friend zone. We’d never made it to a kiss – a real kiss, and it was dawning on me that it was probably not going to. All my pecks on the check, which I did with a good deal of women as a harmless greeting and satisfied my randy nature, remained harmless. I probably sealed my fate grasping at the little free time Carla had available, which also included taking Rochelle along. Though I did get to go to Disneyland for the first time in god knows how long. I’ve got a photo of the three of us on the fridge and a pair of Mickey ears with my name embroidered on the back.

And speaking of not getting laid there, I steered clear of Cami, or more like she of me. And I don’t blame her either for that. Our paths were a compilation of one wild and awkward event after the other, and if there was another to top the last, medical staff, attorneys on retainer, and public safety would all probably be involved. I’ve had women wake up from a drunken encounter and shun me, and Cami took the same route even though she took an earlier exit. I don’t think it’s just me, but a predisposed thing for some women. In her case, it was a reaction to what had (not) happened, dealing with the embarrassment of her actions. Though it also went the other way…

I was surprised to learn that Melissa had a sister who not only looked nothing like her, but was incredibly down for having a good time in the limited span she came out to visit, and then left without fuss or bother. Fran and I were going to watch the most recent F1 race, since he had a far larger television than I. In his retirement, he found the time to appreciate some of the different things that never rated before, but that also meant his proficiency in computers grew and made him the local guru. So much so that when Darlene came to visit she brought her laptop for a tune up, and it was keeping him busy during the time we’d planned. We didn’t watch the tape of the race that day, but we all went out for Indian food, and afterwards, Darlene warmed up much more than she’d let on at dinner. It was good that she was out there for a spot of business and had a room at a hotel, which made giving her a ride back better entree then looking for a subdued corner of Fran’s place to fool around.

It’s great that older women are whores – and I say that with respect. Not all of them, but a reasonable amount. When you get to a certain age, sometimes fucking is just fucking. It’s not like a 24 year old who is getting wasted or making a bunch of bad decisions. If you’re easy and willing when you’re well past your roaring 20’s, then at least you’re old enough to be able to deal with the situation – mostly by not making it a big, emotional thing. I wasn’t thinking about starting up with her and dealing with the fact she lived in Wyoming. On the plus side, that could eventually make Fran and I brothers-in-law if it was serious, but all it did was bolster my reputation as a sister fucker. It was never any of my friend’s siblings, but their girlfriends, wives, or female friend’s sisters, and it was enough times to carry the label.

I reminisced about the adult situations that occurred there at the airport Hyatt that weekend as we arrived at their sister location in Orlando. It was only three blocks from the convention center, and Nell was kind enough to get everybody their own room. We first gathered in the airport as she was coming from Montréal for reasons only she, Peter, Sunday and the American Express Black card knew, and together we waited for Tawny Prietch and Gorin Klaytchko, each of them coming from parts unknown to me. Tawny may be familiar to you as one of the girls on the ’96 gymnastics squad that won gold over the Chinese who were expected to dominate the competitions. Gorin was a business whiz who came to America during the height of the cold war from the USSR (as I will call them the same as he to be historically accurate). He managed to make a killing before Black Monday in 1987, and was one of the few who kept it afterwards and without jail time from the S & L crisis.

It looked like Nell was going heavier on the personalities and pseudo-celebs for her representation this year; Carla told me last year’s triple crown was an architect, a special ed teacher, and a Hispanic writer (presumably to give the group some ethnic flavor). Still, if the hype was to believed, it was a slim group who ended up going to these things, so I must have been doing something right, or at least in my past life. The four of us agreed to meet downstairs at seven to have dinner to discuss what we could expect from the convention, and more importantly, what Nell expected of us. And before that, I did what I expected of myself, which was to have a gin-gin (that’s ginger ale and gin) from the minibar, nap for an hour, and shower before reconvening.

I was not disappointed to find that months away from cross country travel had little effect on the success of my trifecta routine, which left me spry and alert instead of jet-lagged. As long as you get a shot of liquor in you before you sleep an hour or two and take a hot shower, you’re golden. Gorin and Tawny did not look to well for their wear, and they too had covered some decent distance. Gorin was coming from a conference in Sao Paulo that he was a guest at; an old business contact of his was able to sell a few thousand extra entries with Gorin’s presence, and even though he probably tread close to Nell’s territory and likely spoke to the attendees, Nell did not seem to concern herself what happened in international waters, and certainly if it did not effect her deal with them. Likewise, Tawny was at the University of Colorado making an appearance at a US Nationals demo, using her accomplishments to lend prestige to the program and bolster the draw. The Tanner Agency was great if you had other primary fields you were active in, but it made me a little wistful, being singularly employed. That free time and burden of only one job paid big dividends for my waistline. I think I’ve dropped 15 pounds since I left CNC.

We were an odd looking bunch by sheer default of our separate personalities and backgrounds, which translated into our attire: pint-sized Tawny wore track pants and a tank top under an oversized cotton waffle long sleeve, Gorin looked like Rasputin by way of the Paper Chase, his long hair a strange combination with a corduroy jacket (complete with elbow patches), plaid shirt, and bow tie poking out from the sides of his massive beard that cascaded over like a waterfall, Nell sticking with her Italian Vogue look in a Missoni dress. Or was it Moschino? I don’t know which it was, but as usual, she looked both intimidating and incredible. My contribution to the quartet was pair of vintage grey jeans and black button down. We looked like an extras casting session.

Dinner was Greek, which was delicious, but a little distracting with the belly dancing and plate breaking. Nell gave us some directives for the next three days, but other than representing the agency for a few hours a day at the booth, we were free to not only look around and interact with the other speakers and groups, but also encouraged to attend some of the workshops and seminars. Many years ago I was at a convention for Head Start, the government funded program for child development, education, and parenting, covering a segment. It was a strange assortment of people and products looking to get a wedge of government cheese, with everything from potty training coloring books to school logos on backpacks. Other than the segment, I came away from it with a black newborn baby doll as a goof and a slight aversion to the massive halls of conventions.

I changed that tune once I got inside on day one, when I realized that instead of matronly old women and the dregs of Smalltown, U.S.A. it was 200,000 square feet of characters, which I was on first shift to roam free and chat with. To my chagrin, the room was arranged in a random configuration, so next to the podium manufacturer was a speakers bureau specializing in maritime experts, then a group that made marketing and promotional DVDs, and a wireless microphone company. It made me wish that I had Fran and a microphone to document the whole scene because it would have been hard to convince anybody that it was such a bizarre amalgam of companies and folks.

I’d taken a cursory lap around the floor noting the places I would spend more time at later; the booths with the models in front, the agency that had Leroy Kelly (Cleveland Browns, 1964 – 1973), a sign language only group…I was uncertain that I would be able to cover them all in the few days we were there. My time was almost up, so I hightailed it back to the booth to rendezvous with Nell and Gorin, who I would be replacing. I arrived and he was alone.

“Where’s the boss lady,” I asked.

“She is making deal with client,” he told me in English that after two decades living here never got perfected.

“Wow,” I marveled, “she doesn’t waste any time.”

“No, they come up and she start explaining what the agency do, and they take her to meet their boss and make arrangements.”

“Is she coming back soon?”

“I believe so…there she is,” Gorin pointed to the entrance of the hall.

Nell was surrounded by suits walking back to our 8’ x 12’ area, but it didn’t require them to get back to us for me to identify them.

“Sheldon,” Nell said, “I’m glad you’re here. These are new clients of ours –“

“Mason Burnett.”

Surprised, Nell said, “Yes, you already know him?”

“I do. Hello Jeff. Hello Ian.”

“Well, then, since you already know each other, are you going to tell me you know about their plans, Sheldon?”

“Well, that depends,” I said.

“Burnett Media are having a company wide banquet next month, and we will be sending a speaker. And if that goes as planned, we will be their exclusive agency for all company events that they request speakers for. Since you’re familiar with them, perhaps you can help me find which of our staff may be best suited for the task.”

“Of course,” I smiled. “I can think of plenty of our associates that fit the bill.”

And none of them were named Sheldon.

Season 2 Chapter 17

“Fran, I have a virus,” I told my friend over the phone.

“And here we had this whole discussion about you not sleeping with Cami.”

“No. It’s my laptop.”

“Oh. Bummer.”

“Well, you’re some kind of a tech guy. What do I do? I can’t open a single program. I have an ever growing stack of windows telling me my machine is fucked and that I need to pay a hefty ransom to unfuck it.”

“Sounds like you need to wipe the drive.”

“Not cool. All my notes and all my pr0n? No way.”

“You’re not backing all that stuff up?”

“Backing up to what? The CNC servers? That’s not an option for me anymore. I’ve got this Talking Heads thing coming up, and I need to do my homework. I’m thinking of just paying these scammer guys off to get my machine back.”

“Don’t embolden the enemy. You never negotiate with cyber-terrorists. And we need to have a discussion about external hard drives by the way. Bring it on over, and I’ll see what I can do. I set up a web cam to watch that nefarious traffic light, so I’ve had some more time on my hands lately.”

“I’m coming right over then.”

“We’ll back up your notes and… prawn before we hose the system. You have your recovery discs, right?”

“I hope I can find them.”

“I might be able to fix it even if you can’t find the discs. What’s prawn? You have some giant shrimp on your system?”

“Okay, now I’m really freaking out. Maybe I should call the nerd squad.”

“Save your money, Shel. Don’t let me miss this opportunity to be the guy with the answers.”

Whenever I had a computer related issue at CNC, I’d always check with Fran first, and he usually knew what to do. Every now and then Fran would be stumped though, so I would turn to this kid in the IT department, Yevgeny. Yevgeny never failed. He could hack himself out of the Amazon rain forest in five seconds. Yevgeny had this horribly condescending bedside manner. He was literally dumbfounded every time I did not know the solution to my technological problem. He would shake his head with a smile of disgust as he remedied whatever ailed my machine. “Sheldon, all you have to do is a simple registry edit. A child could do this.” Yevgeny was my last resort.

In my current situation, I wanted to call Yevgeny immediately. I decided instead to avoid certain humiliation and let Fran have a crack at it.

The slow traffic over to the Wilkinson house surprisingly helped to calm my mood a bit. I had time to ponder a Plan B. I’d actually already absorbed a quite a few of the elevator speeches and dossiers I had prepared for various prospective clients. I had generic talking points for those with whom I was unfamiliar. And then I realized at that point I was a salesman. I was selling the Nell Tanner brand, and the exclusive product was I. By missing the notes too much, I was becoming what I despised. This guy likes to golf. That guy likes to make fishing flies. So fucking what, I say. I’m not going to kiss your ass. You’re going to kiss mine and beg me to motivate your people into producing more profit for you. I’ll take your money, and then I’ll tell your people how they can take your money too.

“I’m a little worried about you working on this, Fran. This seems like one of those things that could cause your blood pressure to spike.”

I probably shouldn’t have said that with Mel in the room. If she had a gun in her hand at that moment, she might have used it on me. Fran laughed it off.

“There is nothing to worry about. Besides, my medication keeps everything in check.”

“Fran, the minute I hear a cuss word out you, that’s it. Sheldon and his computer will have to leave,” threatened Mel.

“The bad words actually help relieve pain and stress. I read that somewhere. I would be more worried if he weren’t cussing up a storm. In fact, Fran, you should try to cuss at least a hundred times a day. It could really work wonders.”

“You show me that article, Sheldon,” Mel ordered.

“As soon as Fran gets my laptop working again, I promise I will.”

Eating up that conundrum, Mel left the room saying, “I’m baking cookies for you, Sheldon, and you’re going to put him through this?”

“I’ll only eat the cookies if he makes it through to the other side of this ordeal.”

I set the laptop on the table, opened the lid, and pressed the power button. The machine whirred to life, and shortly after, a message on the screen prompted me to log on. I typed in my credentials and waited. Within a few seconds the first window popped up urging me to deal with the incredible number of infections, discovered festering in my operating system, by downloading the latest and greatest virus-killing software. Closing the window only caused another to pop up in its place. Trying to open any application was fruitless. The moment of truth came when Fran attempted to open the running task manager.

“If we can open this, we can hopefully at least stop the virus from keeping you from running your programs.”

Fran couldn’t open it. He wanted to say, “Fuck.” Instead he said, “Let me try booting up in safe mode.”

Then came another unspoken F-bomb moment after a minute or so of restarting the machine. “We can’t log in as an administrator.”

“Fran, I don’t know what that means.”

He just stared at the screen. I couldn’t tell if he was about to scream or cry.

“We should call Yevgeny, Shel.”

In my head, I went through a checklist of all the bits and bytes that would soon disappear. I handed Fran the startup discs.

“You know, Fran… half the fun of pr0n is tracking it down in the first place.”

“You sure you want to do this?” The pall of despair gently lifted from Fran.

“Do it.”

Fran suddenly found a surge of energy. “I’m not ready to give up just yet.”

He booted from the disc and attempted to repair the operating system. That didn’t work. He downloaded and ran a virus cleaner utility, which turned out to be a Trojan horse for another virus. Fran scoured the web, and eventually he discovered the trick to getting my data back. We drove down to the electronics store and bought a small hard drive enclosure to change the one in my machine from an internal drive to external drive—that’s how Fran explained it to me. He pulled the drive out of my laptop and inserted it into the enclosure. He plugged the now external drive into his computer and pulled off the files I needed. He put the drive back in my laptop. Then he erased it and reinstalled the operating system. And he did it all without making me wear a dunce cap and sit in the corner.

“Good show, old chap. Since you’re still standing, it looks like I’ll get to eat those cookies after all, although it puts me deeper in debt to you.”

“This may sound a little weird, Shel, but I want to thank you actually. I love retirement, but I also like helping my friends out. It makes me feel useful.”

“Well, in that case, maybe you can hear me out on where I think my prick is headed.”

Fran received the additional four-eleven on the lovely Carla Diaz. He didn’t hesitate with his advice.

“It really doesn’t matter if she’s a mom or not. If you dig her, then you dig her, and you make everything else fit.”

“I dug my ex-wife.”

“Yeah, people are going to change, and you can never tell quite where they’re going to go. I think seeing into the future would have a devastating effect on your soul. Think of all the wonderful experiences you would have let pass by just because you knew the relationship would end badly. You know for Mel and me, both sides of our family were against our relationship at first.”

“Well, I could understand her side’s perspective.”

“Sure. A crazy protestant hood like me. That was pretty frightening to an Irish Catholic family like Mel’s.”

“I love how organized religion brings us all together. And when I say, ‘Us,’ I’m referring to everyone who believes the same thing we do.”

My mobile phone started ringing.

“Hang on, Fran, it’s my mother. Hey, Ma.”

The voice on the other end of the line was not my mother.

“Sheldon, this is your Aunt Tilly.”

“Oh. Hi, Aunt Tilly. Is everything okay?”

“You will not believe what your mother just called me.”

“I don’t know. I’ve heard practically the entire English dictionary and then some come out of her mouth.”

“I can’t even repeat it.”

This was definitely not turning out to be the call I wanted to hear.

“If she refuses to apologize, I will apologize on her behalf.”

“No, you will not. She is stinking drunk right now, and I don’t know what to do with her.”

“You’re probably not going to go for this, but usually what I do is get her some more gin. She’ll drink it down and eventually pass out. When she finally wakes up the next day and shakes out the cobwebs, she’ll be bubbly and amiable just like it never happened.”

“This is insanity Sheldon. I’m not going to give a raving drunk more alcohol.”

“Yeah, I didn’t think you would.”

Fran’s countenance showed concerned amusement from hearing the one side of the conversation. He was unaware of my mother’s affliction until that moment. I was disappointed. In the back of my mind I kept saying to myself her sobriety of late was a little too fantastic. Now I was contemplating flying out to Dover.

“Aunt Tilly, there are usually little triggers that send her down that path. It’s not yours or anyone’s fault, but can you think of anything that happened yesterday or before that might have had some impact on her psyche. It’s really no excuse for her. I’m just curious.”

“The only thing I can think of is that at my last doctor’s appointment, they found that my mineral levels were too low. Your mother seemed to have a tough time with that for some reason.”

I could see how that would be a little reminder to my mother of Aunt Tilly’s impending passing. Aunt Tilly was Mamma’s self-appointed mission. My mother could take any little thing and turn it into a reason to start imbibing and sabotage whatever mission she set out to accomplish.

Another call was coming in from the Tanner agency.

“Aunt Tilly, all I can tell you is that she will fall asleep, and she will come out of it. She will be there for you tomorrow.”

“I don’t know if I want her to be.”

“Tomorrow would be the time to tell her. Let her sleep it off. I have to take this call. I’ll talk to you soon.”

I clicked over to the other call.

“Sheldon here.”

“Howdy, Sheldon.” It was Sunday.

“We had a little scheduling mishap and wondered if you could do a little talk on short notice.”

“Um, when and where?”

“It’s a transition home in Lompoc. It’s tomorrow evening actually.”

“A halfway house in the wine ghetto? I’m there. Who am I replacing?”

“It’s Vesodious. He’s up in the Bay Area doing a similar gig.”

“Now I feel bad for the chumps who have to listen to me knowing they’re missing out on Vesodious.”

“I’ll email you the details. Most of these guys just got out of prison.”

---

I always enjoyed taking the 101 North. Once I made it through the overheated suburbs of two valleys, I was greeted with a blast of unobstructed ocean air driving down the hill into Camarillo. Just beyond Ventura, the vast Pacific opened up on the left reflecting the afternoon sun as millions of twinkling lights. I drove right through Santa Barbara and stopped at the Bacara in Goleta to make lodging arrangements for the night. It was an extravagant move, but I thought it would provide the right atmosphere to get my Talking Heads preparation moving again.

The halfway house in Lompoc was a stark contrast to the opulence of the Bacara. If there were a welcome mat, I could imagine the tenants would be stapling on the letters “U” and “N” once they found out the speaker was me rather than Vesodious Prime. I couldn’t blame them. My upbringing and life experience were miles away from anything these fellows would have gone through. A connection early on would be crucial. If they weren’t with me from the beginning, they wouldn’t hear the rest of it. I hadn’t said a word and already the ill will manifested.

“Seriously, what the fuck can you tell us that we don’t already know?” asked one eager listener.

“Oh, I know you’ve got all the answers already. I don’t even want to waste your time reviewing the answers. That shit is kindergarten. I just want to talk about turning the answers into action. Pretty simple stuff, but it might be new to you. I apologize that Vesodious Prime could not make it today. I will not even attempt to mimic the flow of the grandmaster unless y’all want a good laugh and reason to lose all respect for me.”

“You’ve got to earn our respect. You don’t know what it’s like to be us. You never will.”

“True.”

Well, it looked like I would finally get my Stand and Deliver moment, only these guys weren’t in high school, and I wasn’t teaching them math.

“None of y’all had a dad like mine, right? My daddy was great. He used to take me with him to the bar. He knew I didn’t like shit food like meat and vegetables, so he’d buy me candy bars for lunch and sometimes dinner too. How many of you guys got candy bars for dinner when you were kids. Pretty fucking awesome, huh? And when I messed up, he sure showed me what to do to someone when they mess up. And the drunker he was, the better he was at showing me. How many of your dads had that kind of hands on approach? I still don’t quite know why my mamma left him. I haven’t seen him since my mamma took me away from him. I don’t even know if he’s still alive. But I guess I don’t really care because he made such an impression early on, it’s like he taught me a lifetime of lessons.”

I really wished I had made all this up. I wished what I had just said was some ploy I had come up with to get the audience on my side.

“Are you sure we ain’t half-brothers?” asked the same heckler.

The men in the room exploded into laughter. We were brothers now. I proceeded to drop knowledge.

Season 2 Chapter 16

For a gal who spent the better part of her career eating food that would give an elephant diabetes and tax all four stomachs of a cow, Cami had an incredible body. I mean, modeling fit. Bikinis and lingerie. Or nude. Like right now. Savor that image as I back up for a moment.

It didn’t take much for me to go inside. I love pushing the envelope just to see how far things will go, even if sometimes it’s to push somebody else into taking the lead because I’m too chickenshit to do it. And Cami could barely keep herself up, asking me to tuck her in to bed, or at the very least wait comfortably until a cab came – though I could tell that was said more for my benefit to entice me inside rather than actually be honored. She took my phone from me and slid it down past her waistband. “You can’t have that back yet,” she purred.

I half expected to see some weird shit once we got inside Cami’s petite house – a flock of penguin dolls and chotchkies of the like, or a page out of Country Living magazine with hearth needlepoint and whitewashed furniture, but I was greeted with a fairly normal, comfortable place. It was a mix of modern décor with a hint of color and vibrancy from the walls, which looked as though they were different colors in each room, and the abstract impressionism artwork she had hung. There were pictures of Cami all over with an array of famed chefs – Wylie Dufresne, Hubert Keller, Mario Batali, as well as guys who looked like they could be carnies or greasy spoon line cooks. It was her pedigree from traveling and tasting nearly every edible substance for her program.

Once inside, Cami didn’t require me to prop her up. She had a renewed sense of energy, though fueled by alcohol. “You need to have another drink, Shelly,” she blurted, and skipped over to the kitchen after pushing me onto her sofa.

“I’m good, and I think you are too.”

“Nonsense,” she slurred, “let me show you something that found in New Orleans.”

I heard a little rustling as she turned on the range and put a large pan over the flames, followed by the muted pop of a champagne bottle under a dish towel. There was more noise between the refrigerator opening and more plates and ingredients being pulled out. I just sat back on the couch, pondering what I’d gotten myself into as the drunken dervish worked behind me in the kitchen.

“Here,” she offered as she set the tray down on the coffee table before me,” try this. I just whipped them up the other day and ate almost half by myself.”

I took a bite of a biscuit after cutting a sliver of brie that was almost a soft as butter. Black pepper and ham jumped out, their smoky, hot flavor slowly blending back in to the crisp, browned batter that was still warm from the flash reheating Cami executed. Always better to use an oven or stove top to keep breads from becoming too soft and lose the contrast between their crust and doughy innards – cooking 101 that was not lost even in her inebriated state.

She pushed the flute at me. “They didn’t pair these, but I just had a hankerin’ for some bubbly, and the sweetness is a good contrast.”

I took a gulp to wash the biscuit bits down, and them another sip to check the flavors.

“Chambord...Triple Sec…lime juice…and a splash of cranberry,” I announced.

“Good tongue!”

You have no idea, I thought. “It was a party trick that I just kept developing. I can pretty much taste the components of most mixed drinks. Soon I’ll be able to even guess brands.”

“It’s supposed to have Grand Marnier, but I think it’s delish.” She clanged her glass against mine and emptied the glass in a single swig. I took another bite of the biscuits, and then another.

Cami got up, which I assumed was to pour herself another glass, but when she didn’t return I turned back to the kitchen to see she wasn’t there either. From that vantage I saw one of her shoes in the adjacent hallway. A sock lay next to it. About a yard away was the other, and the shoe pair. Further down was the grey tee, balled up. In the doorframe to her bedroom were those skinny jeans, legs flopped over one another.

At the foot of the bed were her pink lace trimmed black high cut briefs along with a matching bra. I don’t mind a little Hansel-and Gretel when there’s a naked woman at the end of the trail instead of a witch’s cauldron, but Cami was stone cold out. Thoughts of fantasy turned to images of mug shots, because consent had to be explicit, not implied. The bottle of champagne was tucked between her bent legs, blocking her from being exposed, and her hands barely cupped her breasts. It was an amazing scene, except for the part her where her auburn hair cascaded over her face, arched downward as she slept. Next to her was my phone, which I grabbed as gently, even though an air raid siren would need to be sounded to wake Cami. Maybe that was out of concern I would actually wake her and then get to grudge fuck CNC and Burnett Media and Ephimria. But if I was going to do something, it wasn’t going to be through Cami, and sleeping with her would have to be under better, different circumstances, which realistically, were not going to happen. I was overthinking it, and the fact I got caught back up into that ugly situation in my mind made the whole opportunity tainted.

I took one last look at Cami and headed for the front door, but before I left, I turned around and went back. I could at least take a camera phone shot just to remind myself, right?

---

“You’re fucking kidding me, right?”

“No, Fran, I’ve got the shot right here. Looking right at it.” I said. When something crazy happens, you have to have somebody to share it with, if only just to validate it actually occurred.

“Shel, I think you’re a changed man.”

“Really, how so?”

“I knew a you who would have done things to her that would have made a pornographer blush. And taken the pictures to prove it.”

“Well, I knew a you who would have stood in the corner quietly and watched,” I retorted.

Fran found this amusing because it was true. “Don’t tell me you were saving yourself for tonight and your Federales?”

“Your lips to God’s ears. But while I think there’s a little chemistry going on there I don’t know that we’re coming from the same place.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well,” I started,“ aside from any cultural issues that could arise, I’m thinking that white collar and blue collar don’t always go together well…”

“Whoa whoa whoa, back up amigo – cultural issues?”

“Yeah, like, ‘Who’s the narc at the family barbeque at the park’ or ‘Girlfriend, I thought that was the housekeeper’ comments.”

“Sheldon, are fucking serious?”

“What? I’m not kidding…I think that some people would take a look at me or us and think that’s not a couple that looks right together.”

“You’ve really lost your balls since you got out from in front of a camera.”

“What?”

“Besides sounding a little racist, that’s just a spineless answer.”

“I didn’t even get to the ‘don’t shit where you eat’ part of it either,” said.

“Whatever. If you’re looking for excuses or reasons for it not to work, then don’t pursue it. But really, man, that is some hokey, lame ass shit to be using.

I thought about it and Fran was right. “I guess I have changed,” I admitted not entirely know all the ways that I had. “Forget I said that. I think I’m still off after what happened last night with Cami.”

“What didn’t happen, you mean.”

“Yeah, that’s it.”

“Whatever you do,” he warned, “don’t pull that same act, okay dummy?”

“Sure. If Carla ends up naked in her bedroom and I happen to be there, it will be a different story all together.”

I finished getting ready for my date, if that was indeed what it was, and waited for Carla to buzz me, which didn’t take too long. I was eager like a kid on prom night. Mind you, I didn’t think I was getting laid, I just wanted the evening to go well so that I could. Even if it never would.

I answered the door and was not prepared to see Carla looking so beautiful.

“You ready to get some culture, gringo?”

Her red dress was trimmed with bits of silver at the neckline, and fit her like it was stitched onto her. Without the uniform, bulletproof vest, holster, utility belt, and department issue boots, Carla was an entirely changed person. Correction, woman.

“What’s the sentence for sexual assault,” I asked. I grinned foolishly, because punching myself in the face until I was missing teeth and swollen like a tick, was not an option, though entirely the appropriate reaction. That was only slightly better than telling her I’m an idiot, but please fuck me.

“It depends,” she said. “Somebody has to press charges for that to happen.” Clearly, she wasn’t going to let my adolescent behavior ruin a good evening. “You’re looking sharp, mister.”

Brown suit with a lighter thin brown pinstripe, a roasted pumpkin toned shirt and a striped tie with all those colors and then some – yeah, I did look sharp. “Thanks, even without my mother I’m able to dress myself. Forgive my tripping over my tongue – I didn’t know what to say, you look fantastic. Really.”

“Thanks. They’re having a little thing before the show, a reception since this is the anniversary of the company founding, so I hope you can stand some tapas and agave.”

“Lead on, chica, lead on.”

---

Carla parked below the downtown music center, and we looked a touch odd getting out of her 1965 Mustang all dressed up while the rest of the patrons were leaving their German sedans and SUVs. Not that I minded, because that ’65 was a bad motherfucker, and Carla had restored it with her cousins so that it ran perfectly. I always thought of that car as the official ride of abusive boyfriends, but I’ll amend that to make room for Latina cops who amazing off duty. The Mazda Miata is still exclusively for divorcees and gay men.

“There are more people here than I expected,” Carla admitted to me.

“You made it sound like it was a big deal, so why shouldn’t people come out and see the show? Maybe they also have a sister performing,” I said, gesturing to a couple ahead of us.

Carla laughed. “Those two? I doubt it!”

“It’s not so impossible. They can’t be anymore than 70, 75 tops.”

“No way,” she kept laughing.

“Yeah, it’s her younger sister. And she just had a hip replaced, so if she falls again it won’t be a problem.”

Carla eased up on her laughter and groaned, which made me turn to her and to what she was looking at.

“That stuff is a total load of crap,” she said, referring to the giant, familiar E logo on the back window of a minivan.

“Not a fan of suppliments?”

“Tramposo! Those cheats make people think they’re helping them, and get them sucked in to their system. It’s not about what the products do; it’s about selling more of them, and getting people to get into the program. Especially in the lower income areas they push real hard. Avon, Mona Vie, Herbalife, Amway, Ephimria – they all make you think it’s okay to scam your friends and family to make a buck. I wish I had a rock so I could throw it through that window!”

“Normally, I’d go and pick the best one out for you, but maybe that incredible dress has made you forget that you’re still a cop, Carla.”

The compliment and candor made her snap back to reality. “You’re right, Sheldon.”

“Believe me, I’ve got beef with them too.”

By the time I had told the tale of how I used to work for CNC and why I didn’t currently, we were several plates deep into the assortment of tapas, and nearly twice as far with the shots of tequila.

“I’m sorry, Sheldon, but that’s amazing. You’re my hero.”

“City Hall is around the corner. We can just get married right now.”

“I’m tempted. Another shot or two and we just may be.”

“Sadly, that’s going to have to wait.” The lights flickered in the courtyard, calling us in for the performance. I put my arm out like a proper escort, and Carla wrapped her hand around it.

As the theater went dim, she leaned over and whispered in my ear, “Thanks for coming with me,” and gave me a soft kiss on the cheek.

There were three types of ballet to the show – Danza, Mestizo, and Bailes Rejionales, and each time Carla would tell me which was which, as well as point out when her sister was on. I’m sure a deep seeded love of ballet or connection to Mexican culture would have made the experience more intense, but I still enjoyed the dancing.

“I’m so proud of her,” Carla beamed at the end, as the troupe came out for their ovations.

“She was great. How long has she been in the ensemble?”

“Catalina has been with them or about six years. They’re based in Mexico City, and though they tour sometimes, it’s rare to have her in town. She doesn’t leave until Tuesday, so it will be nice to have Tia Cata over.”

“Tia, as in aunt?”

“Yes. Like as in she has a niece.”

“Your daughter?”

“Yes.”

“What else are you keeping from me,” I asked without showing too much surprise.

“Separated from my husband for over a year, on the way to a divorce and a highly contagious set of venereal diseases.”

I tried to maintain a cool look, but I was cracking.

“Relax Sheldon, I was kidding.”

“You’re not getting divorced?”

“No you lunk, about having a rotten chocha. Nice how you came to the other one first.”

“There’s medicine for that. Exes take lawyers and piles of documents.”

“Have experience with both of those, eh?”

We were staying on topic of Carla. “I guess I just had an idea of you in uniform and didn’t really think about you out of it until tonight.”

“Really,” she teased. “You never thought of me taking off those dress blues and leaving them tossed in a messy pile on the floor?”

“Well, I mean, yeah, but no, um…you said,” I stumbled trying to respond the question she asked, though her meaning was I was answering.

“Don’t tell me you’re finally tripping over your tongue.”

I took a deep breath and clarified. “I didn’t think of what you were like outside of the uniform. That’s one of the reasons I wanted to go tonight, to see what you were like; the person and not the policeman.”

She put her hand on my shoulder and rubbed it gently. “So did I, and I’m glad.”

The ride back to my place was filled with talk of Nell Tanner and the convention I was representing at in a few months.

“Talking Heads sounds like a good time,” Carla shared. “I was going to go to the last one but there’s not that much extra time I get off from work to also be able to do that. Do you know who else is going?”

“No, not really. I want to say that it should be no problem, I mean, I’ve been to countless up fronts and dealt with affiliates and network flunkies, but it’s always a surprise with these speaking gigs. The last one I was more terrified of what the staff was going to do to me than the kids. Though I did at one time have some relations with them.”

“I hope you’re talking about the staff, because if it was a minor, you better remember what I’m like when this dress comes off.”

“Naked?”

“Cute, Sheldon.”

“I’m sure it won’t be a problem,” she said in support. “You’ll have a few more gigs before then anyway, and you’ll feel a lot more comfortable in those settings. Okay, here you are.”

We stopped in front of my building, and she got out.

“You’re going to walk me to my door?”

“You just look so pretty tonight, I wanted to make sure you get inside safely,” she mocked.

“Would you like to come in for a moment?”

The question floated there for what felt like forever, waiting for her response.

“I’m sure you’ve got a bottle of champagne and some snacks ready to go in there just in case, right? It’s tempting, but how do I know you’re not going to end up naked and passed out on the bed once I get inside?”

“You’re fucking uncanny,” I replied.

“I’ve got to tuck Rochelle in before she gets worried where her mother is, but you’re a sweetheart, Sheldon.”

Carla gave me a hug that was just the right length to make me wonder if she was satisfied with the level of flirting or possibly interested in something more. Her kiss on the cheek was leaning towards the platonic side, but like so much else in my head, there was bound to be exceptional thought and analysis to make that minor event the farthest from trivial by the time I was done with it.

Season 2 Chapter 15

One of my first real kisses was an embarrassingly sordid event. I was fourteen and at the time still playing trumpet for the high school orchestra as a freshman. We were on our annual spring break tour of the Deep South playing shows for convalescent homes and on small town bandstands. There were a handful of hapless adult chaperones, but they ultimately could do nothing to stop us from getting high with the percussion section and toilet papering Mr. Cane’s hotel room. On the first day of the tour, I was the last one to get on the second bus. Apparently our limited budget did not allow for us to splurge on transportation as our headcount equaled one more than the passenger capacity of the two buses we had chartered. I paced up and down the aisle looking for an opening where there was none. As I passed by Julie, an incredibly gorgeous sophomore cellist I barely knew, she invited me to sit with her and her viola playing friend, Whitney. I actually pinched myself at that moment. There was no room to sit three wide, so Julie ended up on my lap. I turned on the freshman charm and showed them my emotionally sensitive and funny components while I prayed Julie would not be too appalled by the fleshy component that was growing under her buttocks.

After a quick stop for lunch, the rest of the brass section jockeyed to take my place. Julie and Whitney wouldn’t have it. I was their boy for the trip, and that was fine with me. It was Whitney’s turn to take the lap seat. She was the more timid of the pair but still a cutie in her own right. Over the course of the tour, my friendship with the two girls grew. Whitney really began to open up and showed she could be just as irreverent as Julie. During the bus ride lap dances they sure got a chuckle out of queefing on me. It was disgusting, but I didn’t mind.

On the second to last night of the tour, a bunch of us piled into one hotel room for a coed weed-a-thon. Somehow Julie and I ended up passing out in each others arms with Whitney not too far away. One of the piccolo players thought it would be fun to play cupid. She grabbed my head and Julie’s and mashed our faces together. We both gradually came to and realized what position we were in. Our lips were touching. We didn’t pull away. In fact we put on a show. It was my first and probably my last public make-out session. The oohing and aahing and poking caused us to pull the covers over our heads for a wee bit of privacy. If we had been alone, I most definitely would have made it to home plate. Had I not been so focused on Julie, I would have noticed Whitney storming out of the room on the verge of tears.

After the kiss, our trio became a duet for the last couple days of the trip. When we finally came home, it was like the kiss never happened. Here I thought I had a girlfriend, and Julie was already putting the past behind her. The dumping came in the form of a handwritten note with bubbly hearts and flowers. A week later I found out from someone else that Whitney had told Julie how much she liked me. The spirit of competition won the day. Julie, cruel tart that she was, hooked up with me simply to win some sick game she invented.

---

Cami was a go-getter. I had to admit, I honestly didn’t mind looking at her. Also, her IQ was in the range of an acceptable repartee partner. I could imagine myself sitting through whatever it was she had to tell me. I could imagine myself doing other things too now that we no longer had a professional relationship. If she was just on a reconnaissance mission for CNC, which I assumed would be the case, I was confident I could obfuscate any valuable intelligence and turn her into a double agent for me. I wasn’t at war, but I was pretty sure CNC was.

I called Cami to work out the details for dinner.

“Hey, Camster. You hungry?”

“Starving. I can’t meet up until later though like around nine. Is that okay?”

“Well, I sort of promised my neighbor that I’d check out his little art show downtown. Can you meet me downtown?”

I was actually looking forward to the Wombat Mega 19 group art show. It was a monthly shindig in an old warehouse where one could experience a little taste of the underground fringe. It didn’t cost much unless you ended up buying something off the wall that caught your eye. I found this set of small wooden blocks there with fully realized portraits in acrylic on them at the Wombat Mega 19 five or so years ago. I love those little blocks.

“I’ll make the drive, but only if I can go with you to the show. I’ve been putting in a lot of hours. I’m in need of some culture other than the leads you left us with. By the way, my dad and brother call me Camster. Think about that the next time you try to get cute with names.”

“All right then, Cami-roon. Meet me at King Taco on Cesar Chavez. I got a hankering for a burrito.” I really did. I knew Cami and I wouldn’t be riding the train of love, so burritos and the ensuing gas release were on the table.

“Cheap date.”

“I’m no longer a big shot at CNC. I’m not lunching at the Ivy every other day any more.”

“Somehow I don’t see you at the Ivy.”

“You know me so well, Cami-flage.”

---

I arrived at King Taco a solid fifteen minutes before Cami did. I didn’t let that stop me from ordering and enjoying a delectable carne asada burrito. I had polished it off by the time Cami showed up. I was about half way through my Diet Coke when she walked through the door. She still looked good in the harsh fluorescent lights-- a fact not lost on the other male diners as I noticed most of their eyes exploding. Cami gauged the evening’s sophistication level appropriately by dressing in skinny jeans and Chuck Taylors. Her grey t-shirt simply had a photocopied image of an old television set on the front. Her now auburn hair flowed freely.

“Thanks for not making me wear heels tonight.”

“Okay.”

“Have you been waiting long?”

“I actually already ate.”

She shook her head and rolled her eyes.

“Are you going to be testing me all night?”

“I’m always testing you, Cami. I test everyone. I should have been an SAT proctor.”

Cami ordered a couple chicken tacos. It was entertaining to watch her talk in between bites.

“So the ratings for your old show are taking a serious dive in case you haven’t been following.”

“I actually haven’t, but I’m not surprised. It’s funny what happens to a show when you take away the one thing people really liked about it.”

“Well, we were actually hanging in there with the first couple shows after you left, but I think after the audience got a couple bites of the Sheldon-less show, they lost interest.”

“Did Hans end up stepping in? I haven’t talked to him in a while.”

“They approached him, but again out of some misguided loyalty, he refused their offer citing the circumstances of your departure.”

“Now that I think about, he’s probably better off. The audience would have despised him, and he can’t handle being despised. So who’s the guy then?”

“I can’t believe you haven’t watched the show.”

“I’m not going to watch something I know is going to suck harder than a ten-ton Dyson vacuum cleaner.”

“It’s Stuart.”

“That fucking Limey. How can he ride so far on only that cute little accent?”

“Well, the way things currently are, he probably won’t last much longer.”

“They should have just gone ahead with you right out the gate.”

“I’m not sure even I can do it. The show was almost more about the way you interacted with people than the people themselves. It’s not something anyone can really duplicate-- the quirkiness, the things that caught your attention and got focus.”

“That’s the thing. You can’t duplicate it. You’ll have to make it your own somehow. The truth is you’re going to lose some people, but if you’re genuine and inject a little of yourself into the show, a lot of people will dig it, and you’ll win over some new fans that I never could. You know what to do. I feel like I should be charging a consulting fee here.”

“But how do you stay interested in all these crazy little things that people do?”

“I guess I’m just really interested in the idea of giving the underrepresented a global platform. It’s my little public service. Maybe it was me that people were watching, but I liked to delude myself into thinking it was the subjects of the show that drew the viewers. It’s not a very democratic show though. I was the one selecting all the subjects unless I was doing a favor for Jeff. We weren’t pulling names out of a hat. So the show did probably reveal a lot about myself.”

“I think the show is going to have to move in a more democratic direction.”

“Tell me how that goes when you’re talking to someone who you don’t give a fuck about. Watch that episode and tell me if it’s any good. Out of the handful of episodes I did for Jeff, not one sat right with me. Call the show something else if you have to. Let it die and move on. I hate brands. Just talk to the people you think the world needs to hear from who aren’t being heard. That’s the show I do. I did.”

It seemed like Cami was looking for a way to impress the new bosses. Not that the new bosses, Ephimria and Burnett Media, were much, but I liked Cami. I wanted her to do well despite not caring about what happened at CNC.

Cami finished her tacos and I had her follow me to a warehouse not too far away.

---

“Is it safe to park here? The show is not at that strip club, is it?”

“No, it’s on this side of the street. We can go watch some twirling titties afterwards if you want.

“I’ve come to this thing before, and nothing has happened to my car, but that’s not saying that something won’t happen tonight. There are a lot of cars to choose from, and people are going in and out all night, so it’s probably pretty safe.”

“Great.”

I made the meager recommended donation to gain entrance to the event, bought a couple glasses of wine, and began making the lap around the gallery with Cami. The displayed works that night were heavy on the surrealism and heavy on the female form. The featured artist that night had employed thick lines for a cartoonish look to her pastel splashed anthropomorphs. There were three or four pieces that really grabbed me in the gut. Unfortunately, none of them were for sale. Cami was blown away by everything. She was on her third glass of wine.

“I can’t believe I’ve been missing out on this. The paintings, the sculptures, the music the deejay is playing—I’ve never seen or heard anything like it.”

“Oh, you’ll get used to it,” said a bearded man behind Cami. It was Cody.

“Cody, meet Cami. Cami, meet Cody, my neighbor.”

I had actually visited Wombat Mega 19 quite a few times before Cody became involved. Cody’s art was technically sound but fell flat conceptually as weakly derivative of Alex Grey’s work. I was surprised when he told me he had a piece in the show, so of course I promised I’d come to check it out.

“It’s all organic, man. All the materials,” exclaimed Cody proudly about his work.

“Does it have an expiration date?” I asked rhetorically.

“Awesome, man. I love this guy. You got to come by some time to burn one with Apuri and me. You too, Cami.”

“And the kids?” I asked.

“Nah, man. They’re not smoking yet.”

“That’s good to know,” said Cami. “How old are they?”

“One of them is just old enough to speak complete sentences. The other one has been walking for a few months,” I said.

“How fun.”

“It’s weird being away from them, but it’s my first big show. Apuri said I should be here to take care of my baby.”

Somehow I got the impression that Cody went along with whatever Apuri wanted him to do. Even the artwork seemed like a concept Apuri would have dreamed up. I wondered if Cody had fallen in love with someone like Cami, would he have ended up a television producer?

Along with the artwork at Wombat Mega 19, there was a stage full of amps and a drum kit. At around 10:30, a group of unassuming young dudes took the stage. They began playing some pleasantly melodic riffs on their guitars that Cami and I could easily talk over. Suddenly one of the guitarists unleashed a searing fireball of distortion, and the entire band ignited into thundering cacophony. Cami and I looked at each other. It was unexpected and impressive, but it also ruined our conversation. I pointed my thumb towards the patio, and on our way out, Cami grabbed another glass of wine. We picked up where we left off.

“I can totally picture you talking to a bunch of high school kids. You must have blown their minds.”

“I’d be happy if I blew at least one percent of their minds. There are a lot of kids out there who already know what I’m talking about, and there are some who will just never get it.”

My phone started ringing. I wasn’t going to answer it, but Cami insisted I take the call.

“Who is it?” Cami ribbed me.

“A cop friend of mine.”

I pressed the green button on phone. This was going to be interesting.

“Hey there.”

“Hey, sounds like you’re having fun,” came Carla’s voice through the phone.

“Loud doesn’t always equal fun.”

“I don’t want to keep you too long. I called because I ended up with an extra ticket to my sister’s show tomorrow, and I wanted to see if you wanted to come with me. She’s a dancer in a Ballet Folklorico ensemble. They do traditional Mexican dance. I know you’re into different things and thought you might want to check it out. Sorry it’s last minute.”

Cami was standing right in front of me intoxicated. Carla was essentially asking me out on a date. This is how it is with me.

“Yeah, I think I can make it. Informing me so late before the event won’t get you off the hook that easily.”

“Excellente! I’ll come by to get you at five.”

“See you then.”

And if the night couldn’t get any more bizarre, a short while after hanging up, I was practically assaulted from behind by a young woman and a very gay man both highly inebriated.

“Sheldon, you are officially the coolest ever,” screamed Sunday.

“Sunday, Peter, you can’t sneak up on people like that. What if I were a jiu-jitsu master or something?”

“You could put a submission hold on me.” I really wished it was Sunday and not Peter who said that.

The drunken Cami became instant friends with Sunday and Peter, and they all wanted to dance the rest of the night away. Along with Cody, they became the “Friends of Sheldon” crew and grabbed a slice of dance floor real estate as the deejay took over from the rock band. I couldn’t remember it ever being this raucous at any of the other Wombat Mega 19 shows I’d been too. The hipster fellows flocked to Cami while I did some catching up with the show curator. Eventually Cami waved me to come over. I wasn’t much of a dancer, so I sort of stood there and bobbed a little while Cami gyrated vigorously. By the smile on her face, I could tell it had been a long time since she had been able to just dance. Somehow she held me responsible and kept grabbing my hands to pull me closer.

At one point, one of the hipsters who I’d never met in my life whisper-yelled into my ear, “I never thought I’d be cock-blocked by Sheldon.”

I whisper-yelled back, “You’ve got the wrong guy, pal. Talk to your barber. He’s the one fucking it up for you.”

When the deejay quit, and it was time to leave, Cami was in no condition to drive. The tables had turned from the short time ago in Milwaukee. I confiscated her keys. I said goodbye to the Subaru, and drove her home. After we arrived and got out of the car, I pulled out my phone to call a cab. She stopped me and put her arms around me.

“So, Cami, how’s Ian doing?”

“Ian is in Milwaukee.”