“I guess, what kind of game, Xanadu?”

“I ask you a question about yourself, and you answer truthfully. Then you do the same, ask me a question and I answer truthfully.” The thought of this both intrigued and frightened me.

“But I already know as much as you confessed to me earlier that I would want to know.”

“That’s just the surface, what you can clearly see, and yes I confessed how I got this deformity, which you wouldn’t have guessed in a million years. Are you ready? I’ll start out simple.”

“What happens at the end?”

“If you answer the last question truthfully, you live. But if you lie, even a little white lie, I must kill you.” She smiled at me as if she were kidding.

“Are you serious?” My back went back into defensive posture.

“No, silly, I was kidding, but you will have to do something for lying to absolve your sin. We’ll decide on your punishment later.”

“Okay, I guess there’s no harm in this.” Another thunder boom erupted above us after a lightning strike lit the night sky.

“What is your favorite color?”

“Blue,” I replied. “Your?”

“Violet,” Xanadu said.

“I would have figured brown or pink.”

She ignored my comment. “What’s your favorite season?”

“Summer, and yours?”

“Spring and autumn because it symbolizes life.”

“I like summer because I like to go out and do fun things like camping,” I told her.

“What’s your favorite hobby?”

“I like to cook. Then I create recipes of what I created and put them into my cookbooks.” She appeared intrigued by my answer.

“I thought you were just making up stuff to get my confidence.”

“Do you want to see the book I have so far? Oh duh, we can’t, it’s all on my computer and the power is shut off. When the power returns, perhaps?”

“Maybe, now it’s your turn.”

“Okay, what is your hobby?”

“Playing these kinds of games. I really get to know a person this way. Next question what was your first car?”

“Oh, that was ages ago, when I was in high school. I think it was a 72 Firebird my dad got me. It was old and used and beat up. I learned to fix it up and sold it four years later to go to technical college. You?”

“My first car I got after I graduated from high school seven years ago. It was a minivan. A Dodge I think it was.”

“Do you still have it?”

She shook her head no. “Next question, what’s your favorite food?”

“Pizza with everything on it. It’s in my cookbook. I call it ‘The Garbage Pit.’ And yours?”

“Saulsbury steak with mash potatoes and gravy with mixed peas and carrots. When we had that it meant my parents weren’t fighting like brothers and sisters. We had it rarely, as you can imagine.”

I was intrigued by her answer. I also felt sorry for her because that kind of meal seemed so basic, as if made in a buffet line kitchen and served to the masses. “I got a question for you. Did you have any pets?”

“Once, I found this turtle on the middle of the road. I took it home but I didn’t know what to feed it and released it back to where I found it. The little time I had it, I knew he wasn’t happy. He probably had to feed his family, but later read that turtles are like snakes, once they hatch from their eggs they’re on their own. I never had any desire to own a pet like a dog or cat. I didn’t want to see them grow old and then die.”

“I had dogs and cats throughout my life. I don’t have anything now because, as you said the last one passed a short time ago. I haven’t had the time lately to go and find one.”

“Next question, who was your favorite president?”

“John Kennedy, though he didn’t accomplish as much as he should have in his short time. And yours?”

“Bill Clinton most recently, but also Franklin Pearce because he was so handsome. The only problem I had with these men, until Obama was they were white, and they preferred to pass the buck on the slavery issue before the Civil War, and then didn’t want to deal with the prejudice issue after.”

“Interesting point,” I said to her. “Lincoln was the only one who had the courage to stop slavery.”

“If John Adams had the backbone, he should have signed that emancipation proclamation, and damn the consequences later,” she appeared on a roll now as her eyes danced with the candlelight. I laughed at her sponk. “Why did you laugh?”

“I find it refreshing that you and I share the same thoughts on history. Yes, I agree. If he had done that there would have been no civil war. Granted the southern states might have gone back to England out of pure malice and spite, but it definitely would prevented the calamities later on.”

She looked thoughtful at me, apparently trying to read my thoughts. “What is your favorite love song?”

“ ‘Time in a Bottle,’ by Jim Croce, and yours?”

“I don’t think I have one, though I like ‘I Will Always Love You’ by Dolly Parton and Whitney Houston.”

“Interesting,” I replied. “Okay, next question.”

“Okay, but I must warn you these next questions are going to be harder and your punishment, more severe if you lie. You must be absolutely honest with me.”

I looked at her with uncertain eyes. “How…I mean how would you know if I was lying?” “Oh, I know. You have been truthful far, correct?”

“Yes, of course.”

“You looked me straight in the eyes, your voice was relaxed and conversational. You were being honest. If your body language deviates at all from how you respond to these next questions, I will know you’re lying.”

“Okay, I have  no skeletons in my closet, excuse the cliché.”  

“I don’t care about that. Okay here is your first question, In The Wizard of Oz, by Lyman Frank Baum, he portrayed our most base fears on the characters, Scarecrow, Tinman and Lion: Fear of not knowing, fear of not caring for others, and not having the courage to step and do right. Which fear best represents you?”

“I don’t know. I never read the book, I’m afraid.”

“Then the first?”

“No, maybe, I don’t know.”

“Next question, if you were awakened in the middle of the night by a loud crash, would you go and investigate?”

“Yes I would.”

“Without fear?”

“I’m sure I would feel anxiety and apprehension. It’s human nature, but I would still investigate just for the peace of mind it might bring.”

“What if it did not bring you peace of mind? What if you were confronted by someone or something that could harm you or even kill you?”

I looked at her trying to figure out where this was leading. “I don’t know. I would have to rely on instinct and hope I could defend myself if it came to that.”

“Very good, you are definitely the scare crow here. Next question, going back to high school did you ask a certain girl out to the prom?”

“Why yes, her name was Suzy Best. Gosh that was a long time ago.”

Did you rape her?”

“No! I did not. I was a perfect gentleman to her that night at the prom. We kissed goodnight at her parents’ front porch. Then sometime later that night someone snuck into her bedroom, raped and then strangled her to death. That was in the news.

He was caught by the way and confessed. I think he’s still in prison.” My mind began racing and my eyes darted back and forth to her and to the darkness on either side of her.

“You are lying, aren’t you? You raped her and placed the rope you used on someone else, a nobody with a history of drug and alcohol abuse. You framed him.”

“NO! Where did you get that? It was not me.” I felt my heart pounding loud in my chest. Beads of sweat formed on my brow and under my arms. I began breathing through my mouth.

“Very well, next question, where did you meet your wife?”

“I met her at a job I used to work for back in 2005.” I began to relax.

“Was it a happy marriage?”

“Yes, it was a pleasant time in our lives.”

“Why did she leave?”

“She didn’t give me a reason, but I suspect it was because I lost my mother so suddenly. I guess she couldn’t handle my mourning any longer. I still mourn for her.”

“How did your mother die?”

“It was a heart attack.”

“Did you kill her?”

“No! Why are you insinuating this stuff?” My heart began pounding louder and louder. My mind felt numb and I couldn’t think of anything to say.

“You killed your mother and you killed your wife, didn’t you?”

“For the last time NO!!! I killed no one. EVER!!!” My chest ached and I felt a sharp cramp in my shoulder Oh my God I think I’m having a heart attack!

“What is your worst fear George?”

“What?”

“What are you afraid of?”

She already knew the answer to that question as she slowly arose from her chair and went to the front door. Just before she opened it, she blew out the candle. The very moment she opened the door the candle blew out on me…

End

An angry storm spit rain and wind whipped the trees about. I looked from the comfort of my warm house and hoped the power would return soon. In an instant I saw the lightning crack and the thunder clap so loud I jumped a foot from the wood floor.

I then saw in that instant of electric lightning light her standing just outside my door, my window, my house. Then the image was gone. A person, woman? Or was it a spirit, an aberration or poltergeist? I felt the hair on the back of my neck stand out.

Against my base instincts, I ventured outside into the stormy night of whipping wind and drenching rain that soaked my shirt and caused the material to appear translucent against my skin. I shivered but whether from the storm or something more terrifying, I  couldn’t hazard a guess. I used my cellphone’s flashlight and shined in the area where I thought I saw this woman.

“Hello? Don’t be afraid. Come inside the house. I’ll keep you warm and safe. I’m George Rockefeller. Not the famous Rockefellers of New York, but a poor and distant cousin several times removed. Please come out. I promise I’ll be a gentleman in every sense of the word.”

I heard nothing save the wind crashing into the trees. I waited for a reply but none came. Perhaps it was my imagination playing games with me. How did that song go? Just my imagination, running away with me.

I hummed the song as I turned and went back inside.

“You promise?”

The sound, the voice froze me in place. The hairs on my neck arose again and I stifled the urge to scream like a little girl. “Yes, yes I promise. Come to the light here so I can see you.”

She slowly appeared and I saw a pale woman with raven colored hair, a long nose and dark eyes stared back at me. “Hello George,” She said with a coy grin that caused her skin flush red. Her eyes casted downward as if I embarrassed her.

She wore a thin jacket, perhaps a windbreaker that soaked through. She had it zipped up, but she shivered anyway. “Neither one of us are dressed for this nasty storm. Let’s go inside. I think I have a flannel shirt or sweat pants you can borrow from me.” I looked down past her jacket and saw a saturated pair of jeans, holy, as was the style teenagers wore these days. I doubted that she was younger than 30 years though.

I pressed my right palm onto the back of her jacket and guided her inside. “I have a lantern and some candles I can light. I didn’t earlier because I like storms like this if I don’t have to be outside, that is,” I chuckled at my attempt at humor in this time. For whatever reason I felt anxious.

“Your wife doesn’t mind?” She asked.

“My wife left me ten years ago.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she quickly apologized.

“It’s water under a bridge now,” I told her with a nervous laugh. “You are the first woman in ten years that has crossed this threshold.”

She looked about the darkened living room. I’m sure she must’ve imagined how I kept this house now that she knew I lived alone. Like some men I know, I’m one who prefers an uncluttered house. I admit I dust rarely, mop the floors infrequently but I keep my kitchen and bathroom clean.

“Penny for your thoughts?” I asked her as she looked seemingly beyond the darkness.

“I guess I’m trying to categorize you; see where you fit in this world.”

“Like I said I’m a very distant relative of those famous New York Rockefellers. Beyond that, there is nothing else. I work as an auto mechanic, I write as a hobby, mostly cookbooks, and I like viewing storms in the darkened house I live in.”

I left her standing in the dark living room as I searched the closet for that lantern I promised her I had. At least she was pleasant to the eyes, I thought as I pulled the lantern from the top shelf and pressed a button that would, should turn it on.

Nothing. “Damn, the battery must be dead,” I muttered more to myself than to this stranger. I looked at her in an apologetic air. She appeared tall but slightly shorter than me. I’m five foot eleven, though I’ve gotten away with telling people I was six foot. Like me, she had a slender body, maybe slightly anemic by her pale face and hands.

“Oh, you said you have candles. I’m more favorable to that, George.”

“Yes, of course. I’ll go and get them.” I went to the kitchen after closing the closet door. There was something about the situation that had me both excited at the prospect of entertaining a woman for the first time in ten years and a nagging anxiety that she might be dangerous.

I went to the utility drawer and began rifling through the various tools I kept inside when I found three candles I used the last time the power went out from the last storm we had. Next to the candles sat a disposable lighter, which I used to ignite the wicks, casting a yellowish glow. My eyes immediately lost night vision capability and all I saw outside the outer boundary of this limited light was darkness.

She was right there and I jumped. “Shit you scared me.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I followed you. I assumed you heard me.”

“No, I didn’t hear you,” I replied, as I slowly recovered and handed her the other candle. I took mine to a twin holder and pressed the candles firmly onto the spike. “I don’t think I have an extra one for you though,” I told her. “I never got you name.”

“Xanadu,” she replied.

“What an unusual name!”

“It’s an idealized place,” she replied. “Kinda like Eden.”

She held the candle slightly away from her face. I saw the beauty of her and a blemish under her nose, like scarred over defect that will undoubtedly be with her for life. In life there are always imperfections, I reminded myself as I forced myself to look beyond her upper lip and focused instead on her eyes, a deep, deep brown color. They mesmerized me. “Wasn’t there a movie by that name?”

“Yes, and a song by Olivia Newton John.” A loud clap of thunder erupted and she and I both jumped. We laughed at each other. “You mentioned dry clothes?”

“Yes I did. Please, stay here. If you’d like, there are some snacks in the cupboard over there and I think maybe some fruit in the fridge.” I quickly left her and followed the candle light into my bedroom and opened a drawer from an antique bureau I inherited from my mother after her passing ten years ago. It was a rough year and I believed I shut my wife out to the point of leaving me. She couldn’t handle my mood anymore.

I searched and found the sweatpants, and then I took a bathrobe hanging from my bedroom door. I changed out of my shirt as well, opting for a sweatshirt with the technical college’s logo on its front I once attended several years ago, and took them to the kitchen. I saw her sitting at the table. She had poured the melted wax on the table and stuck the candle fast upon the tabletop. She ate crackers, a variety of fresh fruit mostly melons and pineapple chunks, and slices of cheddar cheese from a platter I had bought a while back.

“Here you go,” I told her with lightheartedness as I stared at the disfigured tabletop that I imagined was ruined now. “I hope that cleans up.”

She looked confused by my comment. “Oh, the candle! Yes, it will clean up very nicely.”

“It’s just it’s an antique I got from my mother’s inheritance.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she apologized with sincerity. She got up and snatched the clothes from my hand and went into the living room. I afforded her privacy and sat at the table on a chair opposite from the one she sat on. “Do you have a washer I can put these in?”

“I do but the power is off. It will do you little good now.”

“It would be a place to stow them until the power does come on,” she replied tersely. She walked back into the kitchen, her wet clothes in a bundle cradled in one arm, her candle in the other,

“In the bathroom down the hall on the left is where I keep a laundry basket. You can use that for the time being.” I placed a cheese slice in my mouth. “The washer and dryer are in the basement. It would be too dangerous for you to go there now.”

Her mouth worked on something to come back on, but then smiled and left the kitchen, walking toward the bathroom down the hallway where she disposed of her wet clothes. A moment later I heard the toilet flush and then water running from the faucet. I had moved into the living room and sat on my recliner, though I sat with my back straight up and my bottom inclined toward the front of the chair. She made me nervous.

She came out wearing the sweat pants and robe, its sash knotted securely. The front of the robe showed a hint of her young chest. I was uncertain how developed she was but assumed had little to brag about. “Sit down,” I told her pointing at the chair next to me. An end table sat between us. She hesitated, then acquiesced. She too sat on the seat but never fully relaxed. It was as if we were on a blind date and meeting each other for the first time. “Xanadu,” I blurted out without thinking as if trying the name on for taste and feel.

“Yes?”

“It’s such an unusual name, quite unique.”

“I would like to think of myself that way.”

“Your mother must have been a very creative woman.”

“She wasn’t. I made up that name after I turned of age and left my family five years ago.”

“What was your birth name then?”

“Blanch,” she replied in bitterness as if she just bit into a lemon.

“But that’s a method of cooking. Why on earth would she resort to naming you that?”

“Ask her yourself. She hated me anyway.”

“But why?”

“Her brother, my dad, raped her when she was a teenager. Her parents, my grandparents, were strictly religious types and refused to have an abortion performed, insisting they raise me proper.”

I was shocked at her answer to say the least. “It must have been hard growing up knowing that bitter truth.”

“All I have to do is look in the mirror every day and am reminded the effect of my mother’s rape and their sin.” She put the candle closer to her face showing me the harelip.

“I’m so sorry for your horrible, horrible life.” I couldn’t think of a suitable line to use. I looked at her, but at the same time I wanted to cast my eyes away from the deformity. “Why haven’t a plastic surgeon taken pity on you and get that fixed?”

“Pity?” She flashed angry eyes at me. If she were Medusa of Greek myth, I’m sure I would have turned to stone. “I don’t want anyone’s pity, George!”

“I guess I said that wrong. I apologize,” I replied quickly. “Your speech is impeccable though.”

It took her a moment to calm herself down before she replied, “I practiced every day, learning how to enunciate the words I would need to use.” She seemed to relax her defenses and leaned back in her chair. I did the same. It was obvious by the storm outside; we weren’t going anywhere tonight. “You want to play a game?”

Bob had no idea what town this was that they stopped in front of a building whose lights and neon flashed and buzzed like a swarm of bees. He looked at the site, staring at it, willing it to disappear as snow fell steadily. The sign showing “Treasure Island Resort and Casino” appeared like a siren call. The massive parking lot appeared mostly empty. A sign below the marquee had a time of 4:44. 

“Where the hell am I” He asked aloud.  

“Silly boy! This is it, where we are going to make us a bunch of money,” Annie told him as she wrapped her long arm around his waist and smacked his jeans clad butt playfully. “Later, we’ll get us a room and have some fun.” Bob looked down at her face, the neon giving her a greenish, purplish, bewitching effect. Her eyes appeared like saucers. She was both exciting and frightening.  

“Let’s put this pack on you,” Daryl said as he placed what amounted to a book pack upon Bob’s back. He faithfully slipped his arms through the straps that secured that satchel to his back. It felt heavy. “If security asks to look inside, get out and don’t look back. Hopefully, at this hour they should be just getting done with their shift and won’t pay us any attention.” 

Bob now realized what his job was. He stared up at the bigger man and realized he had all the characteristics of a Native, including the high cheek bones and braided brunette hair with strands of gray and white that streaked along the ponytail. “What do I do?” 

“You go to these gamblers, who are playing and ask them if they want a little energy boost. It’s going on five in the morning. A lot of these people have been up all night. Give them a small baggy, it’s half of an eight ball, so it will give them that extra pep. Remember, Bob, we don’t want them tripping on us, but wired a bit,” Daryl replied with a grin. Bob saw the perfect white teeth behind the smile and knew they were false. 

“How much?” Bob asked.  

“Ten,” Annie replied. “No more than ten. We got a lot of product in that pack you’re carrying on your back. If…Oh God, I made a rhyme!” 

“Annie, mellow your shit,” Daryl scolded harshly. “If they want more, sell them more.” He told Bob. “We’ll be at the craps table, watching you. Don’t fuck this up if you know what’s good for you. Come on Annie. Stay back. Count to one hundred and then come in, got it?” 

“Yeah, sure, I got it.” Bob watched them disappear inside through a revolving door, sounds of circus or carnival-like whistles and bells emanated from inside. Then the sounds muted when the door stopped revolving. He slowly counted to himself until he counted out one hundred and walked inside. Though there were few gamblers inside, the noise appeared deafening as slot machines made their own distinctive whistles, wails, and siren blasts. 

He walked past a young couple with piercings and wearing flannel and baggy jeans. One was mesmerized by the spinning wheels of fortune while the other seemed just as addicted her cell phone, apparently texting someone. “Hey,” Bob announced himself. Both seemingly ignored him. “You guys want a little pick me up?” 

The girl with blue hair cropped and standing straight up glared up at him. “What’s it you got?” She demanded. 

“A little energy,” Bob replied being purposefully evasive. “I’m stoked on it now. It’s great shit.” 

“How much?” the dude asked with pierced nose, cheeks, and eyebrows. 

“Ten for half an eight.” 

“I gotta go to the rest room and take a piss. There’s a handicap stall. Meet me there in about three minutes,” the dude replied while he got up from his seat and disappeared toward the restroom near the entrance. “See you around,” he told her. 

“Yeah, whatever,” she replied as she went back on her cell phone and read a Facebook post. Bob so wanted to grab that phone from her hands and throw it against the wall, but he held his temper in check, checked the time on his watch and slowly made his way to the restroom. 

The noise from the gaming floor carried inside the restroom, but also there was music piped in that had a country beat. It sounded like some unknown wannabe. He saw the dude finishing and going to the sink to wash up as he continued to the corner stall reserved for disabled guests. Once inside, he removed the heavy pack and opened it. There were seemingly hundreds of small plastic baggies with a white crystalline substance inside. Bob knew what it was, so did the dude who joined him. “I want four, no five. Here’s a Benjamin.” 

He handed Bob the fifty bill and Bob handed him the five baggies of meth. “Great doing business with you. Maybe your girlfriend will lay you for your troubles.” 

“Her? She’s a bitch. She just likes to do shit on her cell phone. I don’t even think she does drugs. See you.” Dude disappeared and went presumably back to his slot machine while he hoisted the pack over his shoulders and went to another potential client. 

He found two others who bought some from him as well and then he went to an elderly couple. “Hey, there, you wanna buy some meth?” 

Both glared at him. “Young man, we don’t do drugs. It’s illegal. Aren’t you aware of that?” The older man asked with balding hair and wearing an ugly Christmas sweater. She appeared just as ancient with arthritic and trembling fingers pushing the button, seemingly at will, mindless to what came up on the wheel. 

“You should be ashamed of yourself for what you’re doing,” she told him with contempt in her voice. “You run along before I call security on your shenanigans.” 

Bob quickly retreated, realizing his mistake. “I’m terribly sorry,” he said as he backed away and turned around, heading toward another bank of slots. A Native housekeeper, emptying ashtrays and dusting the machines’ tops glared disdainfully at him. She was of middle age with graying hair and bi-focal glasses with black frames.  

A black man and white woman came by, and the white woman asked, “You selling?” 

“Yeah, where you wanna meet?” 

“That rest room over there. I just came out. There’s no one inside,” She replied. She had flaming red hair and a piercing on her long nose. Her eye pupils were tiny pinpoints. Bob nodded and followed her inside. 

“How much product you got?” She asked him once she led him into the handicap stall and he pulled the pack off his back and opened the top. 

“I honestly don’t know. If I had to guess, at least thirty pounds worth.” 

“Seriously? Dude!” She squealed out. “How much?” 

“Well, ten for one of these baggies.” He watched her pull money from a loose-fitting blouse, assuming she must’ve had it attached to a money clip on her bra or something. She had hundred-dollar bills that she rifled through and handed him twenty such bills.  

“I want two hundred bags!” 

He suddenly got nervous and thought maybe this was a setup or a bust. “Do you have to be so loud?” Bob asked. “Maybe this was a bad idea.” 

Just then the black man came in. “What’s the problem?” 

“He’s acting weird Lucifer.” 

“Lucifer?” Bob asked incredulously.  

“What’s your trip? You got the bag opened just sell her what she wants,” he told him. 

“I don’t…I don’t know.” Bob wanted so much to escape these people. 

“Okay, here’s five hundred more, if it’s the money,” she said with displeasure in her tone. 

“Alright,” Bob finally replied. He counted out the two hundred bags and handed it to her. She placed the contents in a handbag, closed the flap and immediately left the stall and restroom. Lucifer glared at him a brief moment before he exited the restroom.  

Bob’s entire body shook in fear, feeling the adrenaline coursed through his body. He sat on the toilet when he heard someone walk in. She sat in the stall next to his. 

“How much you got so far?” Annie asked from the opposite wall. He heard her pissing in the toilet. 

“I just sold two hundred and before that about fifty more. I think.” His mind felt like a fog. 

“In an hour, leave the floor and go to the hotel. We’re in room four-twenty.” She unrolled toilet paper from its spindle and then got up. The automatic flusher swept the piss down the toilet. She left him. Bob slowly got up from the toilet seat and left the restroom. A security officer was waiting for him. She had the light brown skin and raven colored hair with brown eyes of a Native. She was also heavy set and looked menacing, apparently confident that she could easily handle him. 

“What were you doing in the women’s restroom?” She asked in a demanding tone. 

“Women’s restroom?” He looked innocently at her. Her picture name badge read Lucy under her photo. “Oh crap, I went to the wrong restroom! I’m sorry. I think I’ve been drinking too much.” 

“You got ID on you?” 

“Just my South Dakota drivers’ license,” Bob replied as he pulled his wallet from his back pocket. She peered at his license briefly and announced on her Motorola, “All clear. He mistakenly took the wrong restroom.” 

“Copy, security, surveillance, clear.” 

“I suggest you sleep it off. We have rooms available in our hotel. I suggest you book one, Mr. McCormach.” 

“Thanks, I’ll definitely do that.” He watched her go on to another call and snuck back inside the restroom to recover the pack. Just as he retrieved it that same security guard came in and sat inside a stall. He cursed his bad luck but ran quickly out anyway as he heard the unmistakable sound of pee splashing inside a toilet. 

Bob sighed in relief as he left the restroom and went to the craps table where Daryl continued playing. He stood just behind him and watched him roll the red dice on green felt table, a white plastic chip covered the come line. 

Bob never played craps before, didn’t know the first thing about it. So, he watched the dice thrown against the wall and even numbers came up. “Eight is the number,” the dealer called out. 

Daryl fisted the dice, blowing on them and then threw them. A four and three came up. “Seven! You crapped out. Sorry better luck next time,” the Native dealer called out. 

“Son of a bitch,” Daryl exclaimed as the chips were pulled from the come line and he was left with nothing. He turned around and saw Bob, who smiled at him as if he were an old friend. Daryl walked past him, ignoring his presence, went toward the hotel lobby. 

Bob stayed on the casino floor, peddling what he could to others who played their slot games. But, like Daryl, he failed and after an hour he walked to the elevator and went up the fourth floor where he found the room and knocked.  

“Who is it?” Daryl called from the door. 

“Bob,” he deadpanned. 

“Bob’s not here,” he called out as he heard them laughing. 

“No, I’m Bob,” he replied impatiently. 

“Bob’s not here,” he yelled out, amid more laughter. 

Finally, Bob got it. “Ha, ha, very funny. Let me in please.” 

The door unlocked and opened with the couple giggling at him, along with another pair he never met. Both appeared dangerous and he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand out. He shuddered involuntarily while he pulled the pack from his back laying the satchel on a chair. He then opened a flap and handed him the cash from the sales. 

Daryl counted the money carefully, giving Bob two hundred for his efforts. “Thanks, Daryl,” Bob told him as he pulled out his wallet and placed the cash inside and folded it and placed it back in his back pocket. 

“What are we going to do with him?” The tall stranger asked Daryl. 

“Don’t worry about it. It’s going to be handled,” Daryl replied. 

“We’re gonna party and then later poof, all gone.” 

Bob got nervous from the conversation. Are they talking about me? “Hey, I’m right here guys,” he told the group. 

“I’m not liking this, the way you got it going,” the big and fat Native who glared at Bob as if he were annoying fly buzzing about. He was bald except for the mohawk that ran along top of his head. 

My loyal readers today I’m treating you to a story told to me from my son in law. It is said that truth sometimes is stranger than fiction. This event is one for the ages. His name isn’t nearly as important, thus I named him Bob to protect his privacy. 

“Mr. McCormach you are hereby sentenced to thirty days, with 29 time served. I would suggest you seriously consider your future plans in this state Mr. McCormach.” 

“I have your honor. I’m going back to see my dad in Washington State,” Bob replied. 

“Good, I for one don’t want to see you grace us with your presence again. As a matter of fact, I’m ordering this county’s sheriff to personally take you to the South Dakota, Montana border and drop you off there.” 

“Thanks, your Honor, I wasn’t expecting this much generosity.” 

“Are you being sardonic toward me?” He removed his bifocal, black framed glasses that showed a searing glare from his steely gray eyes. “Well Mr. McCormach! Are you mocking me?” 

“No, your Honor, I wouldn’t dream of it, sir.” He scratched the month’s growth of scraggly beard. His orange jail jumpsuit had a tear on his elbow that ran vertically along the sleeve. He gave the judge as sober an expression he could muster, hoping he wouldn’t add contempt charges against him too. 

“You are a menace to society Mr. McCormach. I’ll gladly let you leave South Dakota and become Washington’s menace,” he told Bob with a stern, unappreciative tone. He wrote something in the folder that Bob most likely won’t ever see. “Get him out of my sight. Next case,” he yelled toward the bald-headed bailiff. 

The khaki uniformed deputy escorted him from the court. Bob had a medium built and long hair, though normally it was cut much shorter when he wasn’t in jail, though recently that had become more infrequent. This last time, possession of over a gram of Crystal meth and assault at the local bar here in Pierre. 

He ended up at the same place he came in, booking, a month earlier. The jailer sneered at him. “Howdy Bob. You planning to make a return trip some time soon? Or are you tired of our company?” He stood four inches above Bob’s shoulders and head. He most likely weighed over a hundred pound more too. His accent appeared like he was a local boy with no plans to leave. 

“No, the judge told me to get out of his state,” Bo replied grinning at the jailer. 

“Where you planning to go now?” 

“Somewhere in Washington. My Dad wants me to come and visit for a while.” 

He laughed at the reply and went to the back room where wire bins were stored. He came back with a bin with his name and social security number on a 3×5 card. He turned the card over and printed neatly were the items he came here with a month ago. “Okay you know the routine, Bob. Coat, 

“Here,” Bob replied.  

“Pants, belt, and wallet.” 

“Here.” 

The jailer pulled a zip-loc baggy full of cash and loose change. He emptied the bag on the counter. “Cash, three twenties, one and four dollars, cash. Coin, three quarters, two dimes and two, four six, ten pennies.” 

“Here.” 

“Pocket knife, butterfly knife, and flat head screw driver.” 

“Here,” Bob replied. 

“Flannel shirt and long sleeve sweater.” 

“Here.” 

“That’s it, go into that rest room and get dressed,” the jailer told Bob. “I hope I never see you again, Bob.” 

“Likewise,” Bob replied as he retreated into the rest room and closed the door. After pulling the jumpsuit from his body, exposing his nakedness and the many tattoos done on him either professionally or in the numerous jails he occupied in the past ten years since he was old enough to become part of the system, he threw on his pants, boots, shirt, and sweater. He threw the rest inside his coat pockets and then threw that on, exiting the rest room and sat on a bench in front of the jailer in booking. 

Another deputy came by and told him, “Get up.” 

Bob smiled as he arose and he was escorted from the booking area down a long hallway toa locked door. The deputy stopped at the door and announced, “McCormack released!” The door unlocked and Bob went outside into fresh, abet bitterly cold air. He breathed in the air and felt thankful he was finally free. 

“I bet I got enough to get high,” he said to himself. “No, I can’t. I need to head to the freeway and hitch a ride to Spokane.” 

He walked down a nameless street to another street and up  several blocks until he got to the freeway entrance. He stooped inside a convenience store, bought marker pen, and went outside to the cardboard bin and took a flattened box, tore it in half and wrote out in big block letters: Spokane or bust. 

Bob then went out to the freeway’s entrance ramp and sat down on the frozen ground and waited for his ride. His mind rifled through thoughts in machine gun-like repetition wondering if this person or that driver or this family would feel sorry for him and stop. He waited and waited. Time seemed to stop or move with the viscosity of frozen molasses. 

A car with a couple, pretty young woman riding beside a clean-cut, clean-shaven man, stopped in front of him. She beckoned him to the car, a newer Lexus with Minnesota license plates. Bob grinned like a fool as he ran to the car and got into the back seat. 

“Hey there, hon. You know you’re kinda cute. Are you in any kind of hurry to get to where you’re going?” She asked flashing a Pepcident smile of perfectly white and straight teeth. 

“No, not really,” Bob replied. The accent sounded mid-western, like she was indeed from Minnesota. “I’m Bob.” 

“Well, I’m Annie and he’s Daryl. You get high?” 

Bob’s mouth subconsciously began watering. “I dabble a little,” he replied.