Walkabout

I was out walking downtown last night. Apparently, I'm a bad person because I don't have a cell phone.

Jane said she'd meet me at Gov's Pub, then buy me dinner at Benny's Cantina, which is cool, because if I order a healthy meal like chicken and rice with beans and lettuce and tomatoes and someone in the kitchen decides to smother it with cheese and green chili, it's not my fault.

But I didn't get my accidentally delicious meal. I went to Gov's, no Jane. There were two guys checking I.D.'s at the front door, so I reached for my wallet. He just closed his eyes, wrinkled his nose and shook his head as if to say, "Don't bother, mister." I went to Benny's, no Jane. I went to her office, Jane's car; I knocked on her office door, nobody. I went back to Gov's, and the other security guy just waved me in, without looking at my I.D. Still, no Jane inside. I walked back to Benny's and all these people were like "Weren't you just here?" Yeah, I wanted to hang out with the pretty people, but you're still here. Maybe if I come back in another fifteen minutes?

I went to Rathschild's bar. The guy at the door said, "Hey man, look, I'm supposed to check ID's, but clearly you're old enough." I started to walk past him and he stammered, "It's just that it's my job. Do you have an ID?"
I pulled out my wallet and held it up without opening it, "Yes."
"OK man. Cool."

An elderly waitress approached me. "I've had a really bad day," I started.
"You look like you could use a healthy shot of Jagermeister," she offered, which was funny because healthy and Jagermeister are two words I'd never heard together. She came back with an overpour. "Listen," I asked, "Not to sound insecure, and I'm gonna tip you 20% no matter what you say, but do I look old to you?"
"Oh, honey, no. You're a good looking man, such a healthy glow to your cheeks, too."
"Thanks." I felt stupid for asking.
"Hey, look," she leaned in closer, "I'd date you and I don't typically date older men."
"Older? Than what?"
"I'm only 39," she winked, as though she'd made my day.

I left and walked to Armida's where Jane sometimes goes to watch a coworker of hers sing karaoke. He always sings Maggie May. A few doors prior I encountered a homeless woman. I pulled a buck's worth of change from my pocket, "I don't have much," I offered. "Oh, thank you sir." After a two minute tour of Armida's and, as you guessed, no Jane, I left, passing the woman once again. She hit me up, "Young man, could you spare any money? I'm just trying to get a hotel room for the--"
"Ma'am, I just gave you money two minutes ago."
"Oh," she nodded, "Sorry. Sometimes it's hard to remember. I think it's the alcohol."
You think? Honestly, I couldn't believe she admitted that after taking my money. I mean, isn't there a code among panhandlers that they're supposed to make us think like they're not using it for drugs and alcohol? I don't know what I think they're going to do, maybe use the extra cash to leverage a strategic takeover of an occupied refrigerator box or something... I just don't want to know that they're using it for booze. That's what I could have used it for, damnit.

Why not just anonymously buy the city a round of drinks?