I fall in love too easily, there’s no sense in denying it. It’s become a reflex of sorts, like your knee jumping to the tap of a rubber-tipped hammer. It doesn’t take much, really: a glance or a curve (too often a curve) and off I stumble. Arguably, it’s my most consistent trait, this lack of emotional discipline. My Cupid long ago ditched his bow and arrow and now hunts with a net.
I come-to half sitting, half slumped in the darkened doorway where I’d unscrewed the vestibule light. Cleopatra from the bar is sitting beside me, smoke languidly drifting from her mouth forming a wispy heart-shaped valentine above her.
I want to say something witty but there’s still that tuning fork vibrato in my ears overlaid now with a wobbling hiss like someone’s left the needle on a warped and badly scratched record. I turn to the side and vomit onto the pavement.
“Ay yo!” Cleopatra springs to her feet, smudging the smoke-heart. She’s covered up her haltertop with a black satin jacket and towers over me in skintight black leather pants and high heels that tap out the annoyance of someone who’s got somewhere else they’d rather be.
“Here.” She stops the Savion Glover routine long enough to hand me a bottle of water and shoot me a withering glance. I spit, gargle, and spit again, using my tongue to count my teeth, starting to take inventory. Not too bad considering, except for the ringing headache, maybe a little swelling around the eye that might be purple, half closed, half sexy, by tomorrow.
Accentuate the positive.
“Can you stand up?”
“Not yet. The record’s still skipping.”
“What?”
“Nothing. Just give me a minute.” I extend the bottle back to Cleopatra.
“You’re joking, right?” She takes a monster drag off her cigarette, flicks the butt off my spokes.
I stand up slowly, glancing toward the Hacienda, a wave of music spilling into the street every time the door opens. The smoking crew isn’t out front anymore, nobody coming in or out of the alley. My empty bag is dangling off the handlebars of my Trek still locked to the pole. I look back to the bar.
“What are you, fucking crazy?” Cleopatra says, following my eyes. “They’re not there anymore and you ain’t getting shit back anyway.”
“What do you know about it?”
“Just that.” She rears back. “Can you maybe try not to stare at my chest?” She zips the satin jacket to her neck, shakes out her hair.
“I apologize. Bad habit; I didn’t even realize I was doing it.”
“You weren’t.” She laughs. “I was just fucking with you. You’re still loopy. Why don’t you sit back down?”
“I’m all right,” I say. Now I am looking at her chest, but really only to gauge my recovery. In love? Check.
“What’s your name?” I make my move.
“I don’t think so.” Cleopatra shakes her head slowly, rolling her eyes.
“Strange name,” I say.
“Funny. Listen up, Romeo. Likely, you got a concussion. I’ve seen a few in my day. If you keep vomiting, go to a hospital. And if you won’t do that, at the very least try not to go to sleep tonight. Think you can handle that?”
“I might need a little help with that last one.” I try to wink at her, but I’m pretty sure it comes off as a grimace.
“Wow, you’re just relentless, aren’t you? And either dumb as rocks or you got a fuckin’ set on you, waltzing into the lion’s den like that. I don’t know what kind of business you got with Moreno and his people, but you sure know how to step in it. Want some unsolicited advice?”
“Not really.” I rub my temples gently.
“Rhetorical question,” Cleopatra says. “Stay in Whiteyville. Which at this point is like ninety-nine percent of the fucking city anyhow. How come you got to come around here to make trouble?”
“I don’t even know what to say to that,” I admit. “Except what the hell did I ever do to you?”
“Nothing. I got housing issues.” She lights another cigarette, doesn’t offer me one. “Don’t take it personal.”
“So why are you still here?”
“Moreno gave me two hundred bucks to stay with you until your friend showed, make sure you were okay.”
“What friend?”
“Fucked if I know. I just started dialing the contacts in your phone. You know, getting a volunteer to come pick your ass up was like trying to sell Ebola. Someone’s on the way, though. And damn, if that girl ain’t got a mouth on her. And if I’m not mistaken, here she is now. Hope your bike comes apart, Romeo. Ain’t no way it’s fitting into that clown car.”