We are supposed to turn our phones off so I check it one last time. An email tells me to take a picture of gumbo and send it halfway around the world or I will be glassed. Glassed is a threat people use on the other side of the globe. They do not have gumbo there, but lots of bottles to break.
We pull out from the gate and sit on the runway for an hour. Nobody sat between us. How lucky is that? We share the empty seat: her newspaper, my book and hat, trash for the flight attendant, who is a body builder with arms like thick-veined dinosaur dicks. I sneak peeks at the lady next to me. She reads, stares out the window. I fall alseep. I wake up when the captain makes an announcement, a string of drool hanging from the corner of my mouth on the side opposite to her. So lucky.
The captain tells us to prepare for landing and I prepare by saying to the woman, "Your nail polish is perfect for this place. Maybe I should get my nails done. What do they call that color?" She smiles. Beautiful teeth and the pinkest, most perfect gums. We talk. She laughs, flashes the ivory. We walk out together. We talk some more. We share a cab and discuss tattoos and food. I have not shaved in a week. We trade information and go our ways. We both have obligations here.
My friend and I drink at the casino. Thirty-three black hits like a champ, fourth spin, pays for my plane ticket and one of the best meals I have ever had. Picture of gumbo, email, avoid glassing. Food coma. In bed before midnight like an AARP all-star.
The rest of the guys show up in the morning. They were drinking on the plane and we have more booze for breakfast. The air is thick like a bum's breath. It hangs on you and the only way to shake it off is chilled drinks. We quaff.
They bounce to the casino but I stay behind for more cold drinks that taste like licorice at an old bar. I talk to an ancient barkeep who tells me stories about the years before my grandfather killed people in a war — the woman from the plane's people. I send a text to her perfect gums and teeth, and go to the bathroom. Gnats swarm in the urinal. I imagine my grandfather in his plane, and spray at them, shoot down a few, a couple dive to their deaths in my mouth.
My phone vibrates against my thigh as I sit down at the bar. It is a text. I do not look at it but I can tell who it is by the way it rubbed my leg. I stare at the wall behind the bar. It is covered with dollar bills, messages written on them with thick ink, names, dates, proclamations, celebrations. I deface a bill and it is stapled to the wall with the others, another message to be swallowed by smoke.
My glass is sweating. I count the beads of water but they keep sliding down the side, and down the side, slide down the side, and I have to start over start over start over start over start over start
