Well, here ya go...

A little something I was workin' on tonite.


“Not that I’m hiding or anything,” the voice said through the phone on a connection that made it sound like he was talking through a tin-can.
“But…” I answered slowly, drawing the word out as long a possible.
“There are a few people I’ve learned, who wouldn’t mind inconveniencing me, umm…physically.”
“You’ve got a fucking armored Bentley and two South African special-ops guys on your bodyguard staff. You’re worried about being physically inconvenienced?”
“They’re pretty aware of that, I’m sure.” He replied.

I took about six steps down the wide and nearly empty sidewalk that edged the park near my crappy apartment. My throat had a bunch of crap in it, so I cleared it without apology in my cell, and spat. I finished my thought. “You know what I’m doing right now, yeah? I’m walking home from the drug store with two Miller Lite tall-boys, and I’m about to drink ‘em, and forget my day.”
“I’m sure, however,” The tinny voice said. “I’m in a bind, and I need to ask you to do a thing for me.”
“Why.”
“Because nobody I know, knows I know you.”

That was true enough. The guy was just some dink I’d had a conversation with at a bar, and had stupidly given my card. It wasn’t even the business card from the last gig I’d been fired from. It was the one I’d made up in fun. That just had my name on it in 18 point font, so I could say, “Howdy, I’m Dario Tsunami. Here’s my card.” And it would reiterate in print, on an otherwise blank card, “Dario Tsunami”

The dink’s name was Walter Bruthers, and he kept on buying me drinks that night, and making pleasant conversation and impressing me with his bar tab and funny stories about important people about town until I happily gave over my real numbers. I didn’t even remember doing it the next day. But a week later it had come back to haunt me.

“Dario, this is Walter.” The conversation had started. “Enjoyed your company the other night, and was wondering if you’d like to swing over for a little thing I’m having tonight?”
“Okay.” I stupidly answered.
“Great! There’s a car outside right now.”

And that’s how I learned about his armored Bentley. His bodyguards, I learned about during a most uncomfortable series of conversations with his other guests at his mansion that night. I was doing my best to overcome the stereotype that it’s not what you do, or what you have, it’s who you are that matters. I failed miserably.