Dennis

 Dennis had had a bad day. His day started the night before, but he didn’t care what someone else might call the last 48 hours or so; to him, it was a bad day.

 

He’d risen the previous day and looked in the mirror seeing what he usually saw, the suave, worldly man who could count cool on his fingers and snap away bad weather with a look. He knew that night would be lucky. He hadn’t lived in Vegas all those years not to know a lucky feeling when it arrived, and tonight would be great.

 

Luck arrived that evening in the form of a young lady, a very young lady, who warmed to his patter immediately, who smiled warmly at his usual flow of information, who seemed to dig his style. 

 

When he offered her dinner, she accepted graciously. When he showed her his car, she complimented his taste. When he got her to his apartment, she spoke favorably of his imaginative use of soft light and the cleanliness of his bachelor pad. 

 

It was just after her complimentary assessment of his apartment that events turned for the worse. With his smoothest and sexiest voice, he looked directly into her clear blue eyes and gave her outfit a comparison to those eyes, and, because things seemed to be going so well, mentioned how much more comfortable she might be without it. 

 

Her response at first seemed like an embarrassed acceptance of his flattery, with her little giggle and her swift glance over his shoulder into the bedroom that he nearly missed how she murmured prices for various activities just after asking if he had any law enforcement attachments.

 

Dennis’ confusion must have been obvious to the young lady who asked sweetly, “Oh I’m so sorry honey. Did you think I did this for free?”

 

Dennis stammered a reply when expurgated of profanity seemed to indicate he had been led to believe she actually liked him and then he quickly changed his tone to something approaching a whine when he asked whether the dinner counted for anything and how did he know she was a professional as there was nothing about her that might indicate such a level of sophistication.

“Well,” she said quietly, “I’ll take that as a compliment, but I am a professional, so unless you have lost interest, I’ll have to go because time is money.”

 

Dennis was not as happy as he might have been about the situation because the young lady seemed to be just his type, but he had almost been a frugal man and to pay for sex just wasn’t how he had planned to spend the evening. Still, a bird in hand …

 

He calmed himself while he tried to remember whether she’d given a price for an all-nighter. Since he couldn’t remember, he asked her what such an adventure might be worth and even whether he could get a discount.

 

“Do I look like I shop at Walmart?” was her brusque reply.

 

Then she told him the price and he screamed.

 

The young lady, understanding he probably would be reluctant to pay, left immediately.

 

Dennis, told himself what a rotten person the young lady was using colorful language he’d picked up from old mobsters in Las Vegas, opened his first bottle of wine, grabbed an old Penthouse from underneath the bathroom sink and proceeded to attempt a fantasy about the centerfold who ultimately disappointed him.

 

Finding another magazine, he began flipping furiously through its pages looking for something, anything that could stimulate him to erection and the less success he had, the angrier he became and the angrier he became the less his penis cooperated. 

 

Finally giving up when he realized he’d abraded himself with the violence of his actions, he decided to go to a local bar and spend what he thought might be a reasonable price for a hooker on alcohol and proceeded to get very drunk. About a third of the way through his drinking binge, his bladder told him he needed to use the men’s room and swaying slightly, made his way around other customers who seemed to be bouncing off one another to get out of his way, which made him feel like maybe they thought he was famous.

 

In the men’s room, his first sight was of himself in the large mirror over the granite countertop of the sink area, with indirect lighting to enhance customers with less alcohol in their systems than Dennis. As for Dennis, he wasn’t able to see himself clearly because of the alcohol and an increasing state of myopia. 

 

The image he saw was not the cool, suave fellow he’d seen that morning, but rather a skinny man with a slight paunch and long stringy hair that looked like it had a bad permanent. His shirt had a red stain over the left lapel and spread toward his pocket and his pants seemed overly tight across his belly and even in the soft light had food stains from some previous meal and his favorite coffee with chocolate and whipped cream.

 

So disturbing was this stranger to Dennis’ alcoholically inflamed vision, he forgot about using the urinal and ran from the restroom and back to his seat from where he noticed other customers who must have been exceedingly drunk as they were sprawled on the floor in his wake.

 

Dennis ordered another bottle of wine and finished it quickly. He suddenly found himself being pursued by customers who were screaming as they chased him toward the door, which finally convinced him they thought he was a celebrity and maybe wanted to rip his shirt off or something.

 

In the cooler night air he slowed to a stagger and made his way to his favorite coffee house, where he had some difficulty opening the door, but was greeted in the normally friendly way he was always treated and ordered a single espresso. Yes, he thought, a single espresso will help, although he couldn’t quite remember what it was he needed to help.

 

A pretty young counter girl brought his espresso and set it on his table and he may have even said thank you. As Dennis sat, he decided that perhaps a short meditation would be satisfactory and dropped his head to his chest. A smell of wine seemed to be coming from his coffee, which confused him. When he suddenly remembered he hadn’t used the men’s room in the bar, he made an ah hah, oh yes, noise and relieved himself. 

 

He was still in his meditation when he began to smell urine from his coffee cup confusing him still further but not worrying him because he knew meditation sometimes was informative about the state of the world around. When he also smelled vomit in the deepest part of his meditation, he realized the inner voices were telling him this really hadn’t been a good day but with the release of so much negative energy, it would soon be better.

 

The owner of the coffee house, a friendly man, was urging him to release more of his negativity and so he did. What Dennis wasn’t quite sure of was the imagery of his surroundings. Why did so many images relate to kitchens? He was feeling much lighter in spite of some disturbing noise that resembled screams of disgust, but that was just another plus for the meditation. He must remind himself that this was the most effective session he’d ever experienced.

 

He felt helping hands ushering him into the cool night air and an indeterminate sense of direction leading him to his car and homeward. 

 

He would thank the coffee house people tomorrow for their kindness and understanding.