“Yeah, I hopped freight in Oklahoma for a while. It’s not San Antonio, but you’ll like it,” said Alex. She said she’d hopped freight so casually, like she’d gone there on business or to see a cousin.
“So what’s that like?”
“Well, it gets you where you’re going, wherever that is.” She laughed. “You can make friends, but you’ve gotta watch your back.” I was pretty sure the girl could do both of those. She had a sincerity that made you feel you could tell her anything. She was also built like a brick house with brown, muscular arms. She knew how to put a body in their place.
She’d insisted on walking me to my car while I put up my sound equipment. Some people offer such for the sake of being polite or offering a second presence in the event of trouble. However, I got the feeling that Alex would be more than a mere presence if a bad guy showed up on the darkened street. She’d kick their ass.
I had been dreaming of a shower for the past few days. That friend-of-a-friend’s shower in Austin felt like a long ways back. I’d been making due with rivers, lakes, dry shampoo, and baby wipes the past few weeks. All of those are great, but a shower sounded like a treat, and I was starting to look the part of the bum that I was. When I discovered another friend-of-a-friend in San Antonio, I was excited about using theirs.
I was playing at a bar on the edge of the city. It used to be an old house. It sat in the corner of a neighborhood, and despite the empty room that greeted me when I arrived to set up, the little parlor had gradually filled up.
Alex was the bus girl. Despite the obscure metal band on her t-shirt, she requested I play Shady Grove, and she proudly blared Doc Watson on the radio when I finished my set. “I gotta say, we prefer metal,” said the curly-headed bartender, Bug, as he mixed drinks like a madman. “But Doc can go hard.”
The mutual friend showed up right before I started my set. His name was Dennis. He was a tall man with slicked-back hair and big white teeth. His gold chain and boat shoes made for an interesting combination. “So what’s your thing, Dennis?” I asked as I sat down beside him. It’s probably a good idea to get friendly with the person whose shower you’ll be using. “I’m a rapper. I just wanna keep it real.”
It seemed as though his version of “keeping it real” was to become the next white Drake. Did you know that Drake was half-Jewish? Or that he had a thing for Niki Minaj? Or that Kanye West filmed his music video? Dennis spent a good part of my set break making sure that I did. “Look at this dope watch.” He put his wrist in my face. “Drake has this same watch.”
There were times throughout the evening when I needed a break from the Drake business, but that wasn’t happening. Dennis was like a shadow that reeked of Axe Body Spray. But he was a friend-of-a-friend, and he had a shower...
Maybe Dennis had a few too many drinks. I’d like to give him the benefit of the doubt. When he’d gotten the vibe that I wasn’t impressed by him and Drake’s matching watches, he decided to challenge Bug to a pushup contest. “I bet I can do more pushups than you, man,” he said, eying me as he got down on the hardwood floor and heaved up and down. Bug gave me a confused look. It was all I could do to not burst into laughter.
And then it occured to me...I was going home with this guy.
I mean, maybe he was just a close-talker with everyone he meets. Maybe he puts his arm around all his friends-of-friends. Maybe he’s just really proud of his waterbed, and that’s why it came up multiple times throughout the evening. Maybe he just enjoys a good pushup contest, regardless of my being there to watch. I mean, he was a friend-of-a-friend. With a shower.
But shower or none, after the pushups, when he put his hand a little too low on my back, the red flags were confirmed. I knew I needed out.
That’s when my train-hopping metal head in shining armor arrived. “Hey Alma, I need to ask you about your pay.” She could have said she wanted to tell me why I sucked. I would have run to her. “Gotta go,” I said as I dashed out the back door. Alex and a group of others sat on the moonlit patio. “I’m not the person who pays you,” she laughed. “But are you ok? That guy is weird.”
I explained my situation. I thought he’d be fine. We had a good mutual friend, and I was originally planning on staying with him. “Don’t worry,” she smiled, “I’ll get rid of him for you. You can crash with Bug and his lady, Mariah, here.” She motioned towards a beautiful Latina in a polka dotted dress. I thanked them relentlessly as Alex headed back inside. “Be nice, though.”
“Hun,” said Mariah, her voice silky and smooth, “Sometimes people forfeit a right to your niceness. That’s not cold, that’s just making it home.”
I sat out there drinking lemonade and talking to Mariah. She was in school to be a teacher, but she also managed the bar. Born and raised in San Antonio, and she didn’t plan on leaving. “I don’t blame you.”
I felt the ickiness of my potential situation mixed with relief. After what seemed like a decade, Alex came back. “Apparently you were gonna be his DD. He’s out on the porch waiting for an Uber.”
“Was he mad?”
“Yeah, but that’s not your problem.”
“What can I do to pay y'all back?”
“Nothing. Just play more Doc Watson when we get back to Bug’s.
After they closed the bar down, we all went back to Mariah and Bug’s. They lived in a nearby neighborhood, in a three-roomed house stuffed with house plants and good records; Doc Watson to metal. That’s how I ended up sleeping on a stranger’s couch for the first time.
The thing about strangers’ couches is that if they want to invite friends over at 3 a.m., you’re going to drink their beer, play them some songs, and stay up with them until they decide to crash around 6 a.m. And the thing about strangers is that they’re only strangers till they get woven into your evening like patterns on a loom. Then, if you wake up before them, leave them a note with a heart that drips with gratitude as you hold these characters dearly, closely, and always.
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