CALAMITY AND ECSTACY

The Matador was a dimly lit black room covered in strange art, stickers, and polaroids. A yellow sign with green letters read “cash bar,” just the same as the last one. This place was too cool to pass up, so Sam and I immediately dug through our wallets, taking inventory of how many ones we had between us. Before we could total up our cash, Savannah had already asked directions to the nearest ATM, and with the bartender’s directions, we were back on the street, into the fading sunlight.

     I pulled out sixty dollars. More than enough for this bar, but I always take a little extra for the next time I find myself scrambling for cash. Everyone else pulled out some twenties, then we returned to the bar for our first round: two PBRs and a gin and tonic for the lady. Savannah found a stranger to talk to as Sam and I tried to figure out just what the hell was playing on the TV. Halfway through the can, I started to feel my beer and all the alcohol that preceded it. The pictures on the TV were unintelligible. The music was incomprehensible, and not just because it was punk. I could hear what Savannah and her new friend were talking about right next to me, but trying to recall any of the conversation is impossible.

     A man came downstairs with a case of water, then retreated back up just to return with another one.  Sam and I hopped out of our seats and approached him.

     “Hey, do you have any more freight to move down? Can I help you with anything?”

     The man spoke in very relaxed and slow tones. “Oh, no, this is it. But I appreciate the gesture, man.” He stuck his hand out. “I’m Frank Matador, the owner of this bar. I really appreciate that, man. You don’t get that kind of kindness anymore. I’ll tell you what, are you guys together?”

     Frank retreated behind the bar and leaned over to the bartender as we reclaimed our seats.

     “The next round for these guys is on me.”

     Even the bartender looked surprised. Maybe this kind of thing doesn’t happen that often here.

     “Where are you guys from? Are you from around here?”

     “No, we’re Okies. From Norman, Oklahoma. She’s from the City, but she’s spending her summer in Cimarron.”

     “Ohh, Oklahoma! I’ve been thinking about opening a bar in Oklahoma. And OKC is a pretty cool place. I just don’t know what the punk scene is like there.”

     I finished my beer and I was pretty far gone. I let Sam take over the conversation from this point. I don’t remember everything they said, except for them vehemently trashing Texas and Texans. I think Frank left, promising to return, and I stumbled out for a cigarette. Sam joined me out on the now dark streets.

     On the way to the car for the pack we had left, a man called out to us from across the street. He was joking that we were on our way to smoke some weed. We said “no, just cigarettes!” and laughed with him. Then he asked if we had any weed we could sell him.

     Back to the bar. The room spins. The music deafens. Sam’s talking to some guy and Savannah’s still talking to her new friend. I’m in the can. Fuck! No toilet paper. I burst through the door and resolve to dry out for awhile. I come up to the bar for a water and Sam pulls me aside to tell me my date just ran upstairs.

     Oh, shit. Alright. I stumble up the stairs and there she is, sitting on the sidewalk against the wall with that “I saw something I didn’t want to” stare. I planted myself next to her and asked what was up. She explained as strangers passed us by, neither of us paying the other any mind.

     I pulled a red bandanna from my pocket and offered it to her tear-streaked cheeks. I told her funny stories and gave her a cigarette, and just like that- she was all smiles again. She gave me the bandanna and went back down for another drink. Sam came up and I shoved the pack into his hand. We smoked and talked, then I got caught up talking to a guy who dove into water towers for a living. He recognized some chick who joined into our conversation, and I remember that neither of them were from Santa Fe.

     My head was still swimming. I’m back in the bar. Sam introduces me to the guy he was talking to. He’s a film guy, a location scout. Found a hallway for “Stranger Things.” This guy is the real deal: a valuable connection in the vast but necessary film network. I try to explain the premise of my upcoming short film to him, then grab Savanna’s seltzer from the bar, chug it halfway, and then ask, “Oh, that wasn’t yours, was it?” to my new friend. I guess I wasn’t drying out anymore. We could stay here all night talking to the congenial strangers of Santa Fe.

     Now I’m at the other end of the bar, sitting next to Alex and drinking water. He’s twenty two, but grew up fast. Left home in highschool and he’s been on the move ever since. Lives a very “you are where life takes you” kind of life. Optimistic. My heartbeat is in my ears. Savanna’s next to some guy. She’s laughing. I’m watching. She nods. We go. Upstairs. To the street. She grabs.

     We kiss.

     We stroll down to Water Street and I laugh.

     “Is that your new boyfriend?”

     “Ugh, no! He’s a Navy guy. I’m not really about that.”

     “What? He seems like just your type! A muscle-bound patriot who served our country. Why not?”

     “No! I would never. I couldn’t.”

     I teased her some more, then we ducked into a small plaza tucked into the middle of the block. We sat and kissed some more, ignoring the security guard sitting nearby until he told us a musician had just been announced dead. We both said a few words about how sad it was and went right back to making out.

     Back on the street, we rounded the corner and I pressed her up against the wall for one more kiss. We kept walking, then she asked that infamous question.

     “So, what are we? Are we exclusive? Or…? What’s going on?”

     My heart skipped a beat before beating at double speed. I had to catch my breath before I could answer. I floundered.

     I wanted to be her man. For us to be ours only. But with us being so far apart for the summer, I felt saying as much would come off as clingy and rushed. So I gave non-answers and nonsense all the way to the car. We sat down and I asked what she wanted. She didn’t know either. Really, she wanted to know if we had any rules.

     Fuck, I don’t know! I wanted to know too, but I never wanted to ask. We talked for awhile. I tried to balance the rational with the emotional and to compromise and explain and pull her on top of me and kiss because I wasn’t ready to confront this yet and we had teased each other so much that something else was still on our minds.

     My mind was clear enough, I put it in gear and she booked a hotel room. I parked crookedly on the side of the street, ran in, grabbed Sam, left a tip that wouldn’t even begin to cover our bartender’s hospitality, then drove us all back to where Savannah had parked. I tossed Sam the keys and told him not to wreck it. I’d text him the hotel room number when I was done.

     Now it was just me and Savannah. She drove us down Cerrillos in her Suzuki, blasting music and running reds, acting like her night hadn’t even begun. It didn’t matter how she drove, every cop in town just passed us in the opposite lane, full lights and sirens.

     After jumping the curb to avoid a construction zone, we were at the hotel. We knocked on the door, and the night manager explained that we had actually booked our room for the next day, and not tonight.

     And there was no vacancy.

     Oh, shit. We didn’t have a place to sleep. Sam got us Frank’s contact info, so I texted Frank to see if he knew where we could crash. He called me, promising me a place to sleep. He’d meet us here and lead us there. After all the beer and water, I had a more urgent need to handle, and no bathroom in New Mexico is open past ten p.m. After a fruitless drive around the block, I had to pee next to a dumpster, out in the open.

     Frank rolled up with two big bottles of water, just what I needed, and led us to the “place” without revealing any hint as to what it was or where it was, aside from being a “safe spot” and a “cool” place. Savannah tailed his car down back streets into a neighborhood.

     It had occurred to me midway through the drive that Frank could easily just lead us out into the desert, strip us at gunpoint, and bury our bodies before taking off with our wallets.

     But it was unlikely. Frank seemed like a genuinely good guy, and he would go as far as needed to take care of his own. And I’m proud to know someone in another state hates Texas just as much as I do, so Frank was solid.

     Savannah was starting to drag. I could see it in her face. This was getting ridiculous and downright desperate. Frank led us into a big dog park. I relentlessly thanked him and assured him that I would call him if things started to look hinky. He left and it seemed like Savannah was ready to leave too. I tried to bring up what was said earlier, but she insisted she was too tired to talk. I desperately wanted to know what we were and what was going on, but I was tired too.

     We met Sam in a parking lot on Cerrillos, and I hugged her and made her promise to text me when she got back to Cimmarron. I drove to the Albuquerque “Kampgrounds of America” as Sam caught me up on the rest of his night. He said that he heard gunshots from where he was at before the cops started a manhunt for the shooter. Funny how we witnessed two different sides of the same event.

     I was too tired to drive, but I pressed on anyway, hoping Albuquerque wasn’t much farther. My sleepy eyes crossed and the road smeared by going into town. We pulled up to the KOA and the gate was closed. I was too tired and hungry to do any more driving, so I backed in behind a semi truck and slept in the front seat. Even at two A.M., it’s fucking hot in Albuquerque.

     I slept for an hour. Behind closed eyes trying desperately to sleep, I stressed out about Savannah. She was just as tired as I was and had three times the distance to go. She’d fall asleep and drive off the road. So many mountain passes and switchbacks from Santa Fe to Cimarron. This was my fault. I had kept her out so late. How would I explain this to her parents? Would I ever-

     Get a grip! She’ll get home fine. I had other things to worry about: like our relationship status. What were we? Are we open? Closed? Confused? It wouldn’t matter if I never got that text. I expected to hear from her around five, and it wasn’t even four. All I wanted to do was call her and apologize. I just wanted to hear her voice and know that she was okay. But I resisted and settled into a silent panic in the front seat. I could think of nothing other than how awful I felt.

     This was the bottom: the curb outside the Albuquerque KOA.