One-Eyed Redhead From Texas

BJ Neblett

© 2015

 So, here I am. Ok, but where is here? The room doesn’t look familiar. My eyes are too fuzzy to focus on anything. Damn, I haven’t been hung over like this in a long time. Can’t quite turn my head enough to get a good look at anything; almost but… Ow! Oh, damn, let’s not try that again. I need to just lie here for a while and let things settle.

Yeah, like I have a choice.

Ugh, my tongue feels like it needs shaving. And my left foot is asleep. It’s starting to tingle. The needles and pins are bad enough… but shit, my nose itches. Can’t… can’t… quite… reach it… Damn.

What the hell is that sad wailing coming from across the room? Oh, the radio. “You’re not helping my head any there Willie, crying about blue eyes in the rain.”

Well, at least the bed is comfortable.

Ok, Brad, easy boy. Let’s just relax, take a deep breath and gather our thoughts. Think man think… How did I get here? Think back. Yesterday, what happened yesterday? Well, Connie came by at 11 AM demanding her alimony check. Bitch woke me up out of a good sound sleep.

No, not that far back you idiot! Last night… what did you do last night?

You know, this would go a lot easier if you’d stop yelling. The top of my head already feels like it’s about to blow off.

Great… now I’m talking to myself… out loud! Why in the hell can’t I scratch this? Nothing’s worse than an itch you can’t scratch. That’s what she said… last night. “There’s nothing worse than an itch you can’t scratch.” Only I don’t think she was talking about her nose.

Nose… prose… pose… Rose… yeah, Rose that’s it… her name was Rose. Red Rose, yeah, she had red hair, wild flaming red hair. Now where was that? Let’s see… met with the guys for happy hour drinks; hit on the cute bartender. Ha, that went nowhere fast. And then I went to Molina’s for dinner. Man I’ve gotta lay off those double stuffed tacos. And finally I headed over to the monthly social… yeah, the monthly neighborhood social. Lately it seems to be getting just a little too social, if you know what I mean.

She was standing alone at the far end of the bar; just standing there, not really talking to anyone. That should have been my first warning.

Since when do you ever listen to anything I tell you?

Just pipe down and let me figure this out, ok? One voice at a time in my head is plenty.

She was attractive, even pretty, in a kinda hard sort of way. Not exactly what I go for in a dame. But it was early, the night just beginning. You have to play the bar scene right, loose and easy. No reason to fill up on appetizers right off.

“Hi, what would you like?”

The bartender, now there was a main course if I ever saw one.

“Hello there, beautiful; how about a gin and Seven-up, and your phone number, with a wedge of lime?”

“Oh, don’t worry; I’ll be sure to wedge it right in there!”

Ok, O for two with bartenders so far tonight. But she did make a mean drink; three fingers of Gordon’s and just a splash of Sprite in a small rock glass. That should have been a warning, too: easy on the alcohol, Dude, it’s gonna be a long night. But if I recall, the talent was slim and a bit long in the tooth. Typical of these so called socials; pot belly mid-life crisis in search of divorced painted, tainted muffin top with low self esteem. By my third drink, lonesome Red was starting to look better and better.

“Hey, gorgeous, how about another drink down here?” I figured the copious amounts of booze she poured would kill any lingering cooties from her spitting in my drink. I grabbed my glass and sauntered down the bar towards Red.

“What’s a girl like you doing in a nice place like this?”

She peered at me over the rim of her glass with one milky blue eye. Tilting her head back, she downed the remaining half of brown liquid in a single gulp. That should have told me something. Bright red lip prints rimmed the tall pilsner as she grinned over at me. “Well, hello there, Darlin’! How’r y’all doin’ tonight? My, you’re a real cutie pie!”

Well, this was more like it.

“I’m doing just fine. My name’s Brad.”

“Pleased to meet ya.” Her ham fisted shake rattle the bones in my extended arm. “You can call me Rose.”

It was then I noticed her right eye. It stared unblinking at me for a long moment. Then suddenly it began to wander about the bar like some lonesome searchlight. Her other eye caught me staring back. “Oh, I’m sorry, I…”

“Oh hell, honey, don’t you worry none about it. Shoot, I’m used to people checking me out. I lost this baby roping cows down in Amarillo in ’09. Ain’t nothin’ to it.”

“Oh, ok… so… so you’re new here I take it.”

“New as the morning dew; been in town just a couple of months. Figured I’d come here and meet up with some of the neighbors, if you know what I mean.” Rose winked her good eye at me, sending the other on a dizzying lap around the room. “I’m from Dumas. That’s a dusty little spot in the Lone Star State near the Oklahoma boarder.”

“Oh, Texas…”

“Yup, born and bred, a Texican through and through. Just like the song.”

“Song…?”

“You know, She’s the yellow rose of Texas...” Her voice screeched above the juke box, causing heads across the room to turn. “…As sweet as she can be… Only I’m red. You can call me Red… Red Rose.”

I downed the remains of my own drink. Setting my glass on the bar, I signaled for the bartender. “What are you drinking?”

Rose eyed the glass in her hand curiously. “Number six.”

“Number six… what, what’s a number six?”

She pointed to a hand scrolled sign of drink specials above the bar back. “Drink number six.”

“Oh, well, what’s in it?”

Setting the glass next to mine, her painted lips twisted. “Damn if I know.”

That should have been another sign. But by now who was counting. The blonde bartender begrudgingly snatched up the spent glasses. “Two please,” I motioned, “number sixes.”

Rose held up a hand and the bartender stopped. “Hold on there, missy, not so fast.”

“But I thought you said you were drinking number six,” I asked glancing at the sign.

“Shoot… I was… Now I’m up to number seven!”

Doing my best to avoid direct contact with the intimidating glass eye, I smiled thinly and held up two fingers. The bartender’s parting smirk was anything but reassuring. A few minutes later she returned with two oversized shot glasses filled with a murky greenish gold concoction. Rose’s good eye widened and the bartender shook her blonde locks, grinning in anticipation.

Raising her glass, my buxom companion called out, “Through the teeth and over the gums, look out stomach here it comes!”

Reluctantly, I touched her glass to mine. Following Rose’s lead I downed the strange liquid in one gulp. The potent liquor ricocheted through my body from my toes to my brain, finally settling in a burning knot into the bottom of my gut. “Holy crap…!” I managed between gasps for air. Satisfied with my pained expression, the bartender moved on.

Regaining my composure, I excused myself and headed to the bathroom. Dry heaves did little to alleviate my distress. I decided to just man up and go with the flow. It’d been a while since I’d gotten laid. Maybe a ride on a wild Texas filly was just what the doctor ordered. Splashing cold water on my face, I headed out for round two… or was it eight?

Rose met me half way across the bar and grabbed my wrist. “C’mon,” she yelled over the din of the music, “let’s see if you know how to two step.”

I don’t know a two step from a ladder rung. It didn’t matter. For thirty minutes Rose led me around the dance floor like a steer with a nose ring. Her pointed boots found my stumbling shins more than a few times. Finally we collapsed onto a pair of stools at the end of the bar. Rose slapped me on the back, nearly knocking me out of my seat. “Ye-ha that was fun; you know, you ain’t too bad for a city fella! With a little practice, I’ll have you doing the Cotton Eye Joe in no time!”

The bartender returned. This time she carried two long fluted glasses filled with clear, bubbly foam. “Number eight,” she clucked with a sadistic sneer, “enjoy.”

The rest of the evening is a hazy blur. I remember we didn’t make it down the entire list. Her warm wet tongue buried in my ear, Rose decided it was time to leave after number twelve; reassuring me we’d soon return to sample the remainder of the house specials. There was a cab ride that included a head in my lap and a grinning cab driver who seemed unable to keep his eyes on the road. And something about Texas and the rodeo I didn’t fully get.

And so here I am, lying in a strange bed, in a strange room, with a Texas sized hangover, while Willie Nelson laments about all the girls he’s loved. My position, while certainly new to me, isn’t all that uncomfortable. The feeling is starting to return to my left foot, despite its being bound to the bed post. And if the ropes on my wrists were just a tad longer I could reach my nose to scratch it. All in all, everything considered, not a totally bad situation I guess. I’ve been in worse.

And the sex… what I recall of it, was great.

I think I can hear Rose rooting around in the next room. I wonder what else she has in mind. I just hope she was kidding about the branding iron!