That’s just the kind of luck I have overall.

I managed to turn 40 bucks into 180 bucks sitting at one slot machine in the corner of the casino, deadeyed, drunk and alone.

I figured, I better high tail it outta here so I don’t lose anything.

Then my ex texts me: Whatchu Doin?

It’s 3 AM.

I think I know what he wants.

And then the guy I like texts me:

I wish I was there with you. I want you so badly right now.

Its 3:02 AM. But really 6:02 AM where he is, so not as bad.

I’m in the parking lot texting back the ex. Or about to.

Not sure what to say since I fucking hate him.

I started to say, what do you care, asshole?

But I didn’t.

I settled on sending the message, having a great time with my friends when a white mercedes benz pulls up in front of me.

I’m ten feet away from the Tardis.

I call my royal blue Kia, the Tardis, by the way.

So the guy driving the Benz looks fucked up.

He looks like he has been drinking since Thursday.

Its Saturday Night.

He  motions me to come over and as drunk as he is he doesn’t look dangerous

other than the fact that

he is behind the wheel of a vehicle.

He goes, “Hey, I had a bad night in there, how did you do?”

I said, Not bad, Not bad.

I’m drunk too. But I live like two minutes around the corner.

I know I can make it.

Mercedes dude says, ‘Hey, come sit with me a minute and cheer me up, come on, get in.”

That’s just the kind of luck I have overall.

I figured, I’m up tonight, so getting some head would be a really nice dismount to the day.

I hop in the Benzo.

We’re sitting there and he goes, “I lost a lot. A whole  lot. Damn.”

I say, ” Well maybe next time don’t play with money you need.”

I sounded like such a fucking liar.

He said, “Well what do you wanna do, you wanna go eat? You wanna drink?”

I wanted to drink.

White Benzo driver goes, “Well I am from Maryland and I wanted to come here and start over so I thought a good first weekend would be to hit it big you know? Damn. But then again, I did meet you.”

I’m buying the bullshit and pushing twenties further down in my bra.

I light up a cig.

“You from MD, huh?” I say.

“Check the tags,” Benzo says back.

“Where do you stay?” I ask.

“Around the corner.”

I thought fuck, if this dude lives in my complex its gonna be a damn problem if I see him at the mail box when I’m done with him.

That’s just the kind of luck I have overall.

I go, “Which direction?”

He points the opposite way of where I live.

Whew!

The complex over there is pretty nice and its within walking distance of the Tardis and this guy was sloshed out of his mind so I figured, What the hell?

“What’s your name?” I ask.

Its my new policy.

I need to ask the first name of the people I fuck.

Out of politeness, you know?

Greg. He says.

Sure. I say.

He whips the White Mercedes across the street to his condos and parks right out front.

Nice.

Close to the exit.

We go up to the second level of condos and go in.

It’s a studio.

There are unpacked boxes crowding the room to the small place in the center.

Where the bed is. No Chairs.

Where the mini tv is on an upside down storage bucket.

I smell Vodka.

I see an unopened pint of Smirnoff.

I’m assuming that’s mine.

So Greg starts talking about his great American roadtrip to Las Vegas.

Greg talks about his 13 year old daughter in Kentucky.

Greg talks about the reason he is in town is so that he can start his gospel music career.

Greg turns on the mini tv and says I’m hungry.

Greg goes to the fridge, pulls out a pound of raw ground beef and says, “Cook that.”

I’m in a studio.

I’m in the kitchen of a studio.

I’m in the kitchen of a studio with nearly two hundred in twenties in my bra, drinking out of a pint of Vodka, making hamburgers with cheddar cheese, mushrooms and grilled onions for a guy named Greg who sings gospel music who is standing across from me in his bathroom, with the door open, leaned up against the wall taking the longest piss on earth into the komode.

I am not fucking this man tonight.

I make him three burgers, dress two with lettuce and ketchup and mustard and leave one in the pan.

I kill the vodka.

Greg talks about how nobody believes in his dream.

Greg talks about how much money he used to have.

Greg reveals that he is 44 after I guess he is 39.

Just being polite again.

Benzo Greg finishes off his first burger and I feel the vodka.

I ask if he has more.

He says let’s fuck first so he can sober up and he will go get more.

I grab my purse.

“Nah, I’m cool’ I say and head for the door.

He  grabs my arm the first time.

He says wait, I need to put your number in my phone.

Fine.

I tell him my name is Pixie and let him record my digits in his archaic phone.

He shows me thirty pictures of the daughter he left across the country.

I head for the door again.

He grabs my arm the second time.

“Let me hug you girl.’ He says putting his skinny little broke arms around my healthy rich waist.

I say, well I’m gonna head over to  my car. You are trashed.Get some rest and call me tomorrow.

I open the door.

Its cool outside.

I was thinking of going back into the casino and then he grabs my arm the third time.

I turn around to look and the gospel singer is wobbling.

The gospel singer is wobbling and his pants are around his ankles.

The gospel singer is wobbling and his pants are around his ankles and he is trying to make me touch his dick.

That’s just the kind of luck I have overall.

I pull back, stretch my left leg so its out the door and say, “Another night.”

He starts to whine.

Benzo starts whining like he is twelve. And I’m an episode of Benny Hill. And he stayed up past his bedtime to watch me. And the channel is not coming in clearly.

I scoot more of my body out the door.

Gospel Greg tears up.

He goes, “its just that I lost so much money and I was really trying to have a happy ending to the whole thing.”

I said, as I yanked away, “It’s Las Vegas. Get some more money and you can call a broad to come fuck you. Try that next time.”

I get my fingers out and run.

I haven’t run in years.

It was refreshing.

I see the Tardis.

I hop in and count my twenties.

All Still there.

I’m sober now.

And I realize I am not a parking lot pimp.

I drive home.

Alone

That’s just the kind of luck I have overall.