Being Memorial Day Weekend and all,

I got off work early. On the weekends all this  means to me is

More time to drink.

It’s the desert so its 105 degrees outside.

This is no time to walk up to an ATM machine.

I have on metal hoop earrings and in just the time it takes for me to leave my office building and get to my car, they are burning my skin.

This is the time when you actually go into the bank to get weekend splurging cash.

They give out free bottled waters on hot days too.

So I’m still in my work garb and when I get to the window

To complete my transaction there is a moderately attractive man at the window to the right.

When I say windows I mean windows.

The tellers are protected from us behind glass with little holes in the bottom of the window

where they pass our money through and good will.

I say that the man is moderately attractive because I am wearing flats and we are the same height.

I say moderately because he is talking loudly in the bank which we all know should be treated

with the same respect as a library.

He is still in work clothes too, a maintenance uniform for a popular airline/helicopter company in town.

He is doing what I am doing, getting weekend cash and I know this because he is blabbing it to

the entire bank.

His teller tells a joke.

It is at his expense.

I laugh.

He says too me, you shouldn’t have laughed at that.

I say back I needed that laugh, thank you.

He says would you like to call me?

I say, why so I can continue to laugh at you?

We leave.

He is parked next to me.

He drives a giant white SUV of some kind.

He hops in and says through his window…you sure you don’t want to call?

It’s hot.

I’m flattered.

I say, you should stop now.

I get in my car and we go our separate ways.

I am on a mission.

My mission, Newcastles.

On Fridays, at the casino next to my house Newcastles are only two dollars.

I go home to find something casually fly to wear.

I try on my Wonder Woman teeshirt.

I don’t like how it fits. I know if I sit down, her face will be bent under my breasts.

All you will see is blue black hair. The joke on the shirt only works if you can actually read it.

Not the look I am going for. And I don’t plan on standing at the bar.

I opt for a spandex tank with pink and yellow and black flowers. Makes me look thin in the front and cock diesel in the back.

I pull my hair back into a bun when I go to the casino on Fridays and then put on a wig.

I do this so that none of my coworkers will recognize me by a quick glance.

Especially if I am trashed.

I take off my glasses and pop in my contacts. Its a disguise.

On Friday at this casino at night it is packed with Urbans because drinks are cheap until 11 PM.

When I say Urbans I mean other local working folk, not tourists.

When I say Urbans I mean the broke college kids from UNLV looking to have a good time on the cheap.

Oh yeah and lots of brown people.

I assume Friday nights are a drag for all of the the white bartenders. Probably not the greatest nights for tips but a lot of work.

Because I live across the street the bartenders don’t know me persay but they know my drink.

Often if they are helping other guests and they see me, without me asking they will pop the top on a newcastle, mid order and put it on the counter. I pay my five dollars( because on other nights one NewCastle is 4 bucks) We smile at each other

and I walk off, happy.

One of the bartenders always tries to get me to sit down and play video poker instead of just giving me my beer.

It is annoying.

It costs the same anyway he says smiling like I just moved to Vegas five minutes ago.

Shut up. I think. I never say this out loud.

Sometimes I try to go in and wear different hair, or a crazy hat or makeup just to see if they recognize me.

They always do.

I wonder if my coworkers do too?

This night like all other Fridays the bartender is Chris.

Chris never looks happy on Fridays. Probably because of the Urbans.

I am in line waiting on him behind a few of them.

They look menacing even to me.

They are dressed like the characters from the movie Colors. Bandanas on their heads and hanging out of their back pockets.

Jeans worn so low under their ass cheeks that their plaid boxers, which match the bandanas no less are showing.

White tee shirts.

A group of Urbans are sitting at the table across from the bar. One of the drunks at the table is extremely attractive and is having a magnificent time. He must be the host. Everyone is laughing at his jokes.

The kids in line have tattoos on their faces.

In my head I pretend that the kinds in line in front of me are a Mexican Biker club up from LA for the Holiday weekend and to cause a little mischief.

They are probably nerdy college kids from the local University trying to look bad ass.

The table party goer yells to me, too much booty in the pants. He has said this several times and I did not know that he was addressing me until I look in their direction. Once I do the entire table looks up and claps. They all go YAY, she hears us.

The gangmembers are frustrating Chris because there are thirty of them and instead of ordering all thirty drinks at once, they are ordering them one at a time and he has to do a lot of running around.

I can see that he is pissed.

Then he says to them after the fifteenth single order…are you sure you don’t want anything else because I can take multiple orders at once.

I ask the table of onlookers while I am waiting, wanna see me do the booty dance?

They all scream yes. Mind you there are only women at this table and the one magnificent looking trouble maker.

I am doing a little booty dance in line just for him.

I think in my head, this is going to be a good night.  As soon as the gang gets their drinks I am going to saunter over there with my New castle and ask him what is up.

I’m sure all those women at his table are his cousins I say to convince myself.

The gang orders more drinks, one at a time.

The mousy lady behind me speaks up as the table is cheering for my dance and says, Don’t mind my husband. I barely let him out of the house. He is ridiculous.

I feel disgusting.

She looks like she has just about had enough of his bullshit. Her hair is pulled back into the tightest of buns. She is wearing no makeup and the most clothes I have ever seen on a person who wasn’t outside in Alaska.

He is obviously tired of her bullshit too.

I sigh. why am I always the cause of someone’s divorce?

Why does every perv husband on earth wanna talk to me?

And every short dude?

And every freak?

Chris nods that he sees me. The gang members are pulling up their pants because they keep falling down and deciding what else they want to drink. The biggest of the members, the scariest and broadest and most tattooed one, turns to me and says, I like that dance, lil mama.

I say thank you.

He says what are you drinking?

I say Chris knows what I want, don’t you Chris?

He goes yep, NewCastle.

So Big gangster boo goes, Okay so all I want now is two shots of patron, a margarita with salt and whatever this lady is drinking.

Chris grabs my beer and puts on the counter.

Just then the gang members girlfriends show up. I guess they all went to the bathroom together to do some coke. They are dressed the same way, bandanas, white tees and jeans, facial tattoos.

I was starting to think it was Halloween or that they were actors in a play.

I grab my beer and as I walk away, I hear one of the girls, go Uh Uhn Rico, how she get her drink before me. fucker?

I played a few games, listened to some live music and then I left.

I’m in the parking lot and headed to my car, happy it was a quiet night for the most part.

And who should I see in the lot? The horny gospel singer, walking toward me with a friend who also looked like he was from Kentucky.

I know that he has told this dude

that he knows everyone in Las Vegas,

Because as he approaches me he goes, See Man?

He stretches out his arms and screams my name like we hadn’t seen each other since Thanksgiving 2004.

The Kentucky partner of horny gospel singer goes, Damn.

I say thank you.

I can see horny wants to chat it up and I don’t so I look off into the parking lot, as if someone is over there waiting for me and I say, Hold up, baby, I’m coming. I point toward the cars.

Good seeing you I say and peel his arms off me.

I run to my car.

And the only thing I am thinking as I drive back to my place is

Its hot.

Its late.

I’m alone  and

I wish that

I had given the maintenance man

my number.