It was getting dark when I got there, and I'd managed to get off the
wrong exit, too, guessing downtown was where it wasn't, as I always do.
It meant an anxious tour through the dark and empty streets down by the
river, looking for a place to stay, finding nothing until I finally
passed an open space -- park or vacant lot, I couldn't tell and didn't
care -- and saw the few lights that this downtown burned, about a half
mile away.

By the time I found the big hotel, I didn't care if it cost too much --
I was late and had had no time to arrange a place to stay because my
boss could not decide that I was right and this town was where our
business next needed to take me. The expense account could take the
hit. And me, though I don't do it often, as for me, I figured I was
owed a nice stiff shot in the bar.

It was almost empty. It's a big town, a state capital in fact, but pols
and lobbyists can be more boring than you'd think -- or maybe more
discreet. A big town, but a big farm town, too. So, 9 pm and the action
is a sleepy bartender staring at the basketball on the screen. A stuffy
smell: cigarettes stubbed out hours before, maybe gym bags that had
been parked beneath the bar rail. Getting me a drink was a nice change
of pace, I guess.

I nursed it. I had things to do the next day and wasn't sure that
they'd pan out. Halfway trying to plan the next day, halfway trying to
unwind so I could sleep and get an early start, I sat, eyes closed,
trying to shut out the tinny TV cheers, the fake dark wooden walls,
rows of bottles gleaming in the dim light like an army massing for a
battle no one will ever chronicle.

So it startled me when I sensed him standing next to me.

"Good game," he said, nodding at the TV. I just grunted.

Like me, he kept his jacket on, the cashmere stretched tight across
broad shoulders as he leaned up on the bar. Taking possession. Maybe if
you live out here, in all that wide and open flatness, you need to
stand, to gesture large. Need to lay your arm down on a bar just like
you own it. I'm from a different place. Don't like to take up too much
space. Don't need to be paid attention to. I have my reasons.

"How 'bout those Kings," he said, waving a glass to get the bartender's
attention as he nodded, half asleep, down by the register. "I think
they're gonna go all the way this year." He had that loud, large-voiced
way of talking that doesn't need to look at who it's speaking to, that
you could as well answer with an ape-like grunt, a yeah, a cheer for
another basket -- 15th, 30th? -- sunk.

"Look," I said. "I don't really follow..."

And that got him to turn towards me, exactly what I didn't want.

"Hey Fred," he called back over his shoulder. "Where's my drink." And
to me: "What's yours?"

I shook my head.

"Nah. No thanks," I said, mildly as I could. "I'm fine. I'm kinda
beat."

"So," he said, a quieter voice. "So you don't follow the Kings, huh?
Who's your team, then?"

I shrugged.

"Don't have a team," I tried to be clipped, as abrupt as I could, to
cut him off. I was brought up right, I have to say, so being rude
doesn't come easy. He didn't get the hint.

"No team?" he said. "No team? What, you like hockey? Not hockey, not
the way you talk," trying to imitate what some might call a drawl.
"Golf?" He called out again, that fake-jovial tone, that hey-we're-all-
just-guys together bellow that he had lost when he lowered his voice to
talk tome. "Hey Fred, you got the Golf Channel on that?"

I shook my head.

"Don't like sports," he half-asked, half-diagnosed. "Don't like
sports." Suddenly, his voice intense, still lower. "What do you like
then?"

What do I like? Things that matter too much to dredge up in an empty
bar, a distant city, a stranger I don't want to talk with. I reached
for my now-watery drink; the ice had mostly melted and the taste was
gone, took a large swallow to hurry on my way.

He kept talking all the while. Was I traveling through, first time? Got
to see this, take some time, head out to there. It's a great town, not
L.A., the Bay, but lots to do, good people, great schools. Good family
town. A pointed look.

Another swallow.

The hell with it, I thought. I'll leave the rest. I stood.

"Where're you going?" as if surprised.

"Look," I said. "I gotta go. I'm beat."

"Hey," he said. "Hey, come on. Have one on me. Welcome to town, you
know."

"Really. I gotta..." It was awkward, trying to get around him.

His laid a heavy palm atop my hand.

"You're different, I can see," he whispered. "Let's not play around --
or should I say, why don't we? Have a little fun."

I shook his hand off.

"I do guy and gal," I said, trying to sound brusque.

"Yeah?" a lazy grin. "Yeah, really? Tell me..." leaning forward. "Tell
me, who's the girl?"

I heard him laughing as I stalked out.