Hung

I got a text about 8 last night, meet me at the Westin. I showered and drove into the city. This was not my plan for the night, I already had serious plans for the night. Instead, I was about to walk into a ballroom filled with gun nuts.

Becky who drinks had emailed me earlier this week. She is a lobbyist for some manufacturer of weapons. Mostly she has red hair, a brilliant smile, knows how to dress the part and she can speak words around anyone who will listen. I met her years ago, over 20 years ago. At the time she was the national spokesman for a chemical company that had promised their new food container would be biodegradable. Of course it was all a lie, Becky who drinks knew it, but there she would be, talking to consumer groups and politicians, shaking hands, brilliant smile, a few words on biodegradable food storage units and then she would be on to the next group.

Now she does guns. I am sure she is great at it, because that is what she is. For me, she is as honest as the day is long and when she texts and says drinks at the Westin, all I need is a time.

I showed up and here is my problem with gun nuts. Unlike the rest of the country, conventions of gun nuts is always made up of badly dressed white guys. I could see the red hair at about 100 yards. I made my way to Becky who drinks and she handed me a glass of red wine and said, "drink up honey, you're going to need it."

A few glasses later we were on our way to another cocktail hour on the 17th floor of the Omni hotel. There, as if transplanted from the other party, more badly dressed white guys, these ones might have been slightly older and a little quieter. I was on my third glass of wine, nothing to eat and I was getting loopy.

A guy from a major gun manufacturing company walked up and gave me a brass belt buckle. I looked over to Becky who drinks, she made a gun using her index finger and thumb, and fired a shot in my general direction.

Becky who drinks wobbled over to me and said we should go back to her hotel room, slurring, "I have something to show you." I replied, "Seen it, not that impressive." She smiled and said, "no, follow, you see."

We both were, at that point, certainly legally intoxicated, but her hotel was within walking distance, so off we went into the warm spring evening.

In the corner of her suite was a large figure, lurking in the dark. Who's that I asked. She turned on the light, a poster of the former actor Antonio Banderas was leaning up against the curtain. I smiled.

There is not always a lot to learn when you are drunk. Last night was nothing special, a night with an old friend who has the verbal dexterity to sell a whale the ocean, and a giant cut out of a fading actor. All in all, I'd say the night started perfectly.

It's what happened when we took the cab to the dance club, carrying Antonia Banderas and a bottle of cheap scotch when things really got out silly.