I owned a tequila bar called Amalia’s in Bend—a place where the guac was good, the tequila better, and I could walk in like Tony fuck-in’ Soprano. People came just to shake my hand, like I was some local legend, half liquor king, half godfather. Most days, it felt like that. Especially when the regulars leaned in, called me “Boss,” and bought me drinks I didn’t need.
There was this guy though. A weird little leprechaun-looking bastard. Dressed like he stepped out of a Brooks Brothers catalog but stood maybe 5-foot-nothing. Tan like he lived under a heat lamp, eyes too friendly. He’d always go out of his way to greet me—never missed a beat. At first, I figured he was a fan. People like to get close to power, or what they think is power.
He’d show up at the restaurant, pop up at Deschutes Brewery, shake my hand at the sushi spot. Always at the edge of the radar, never fully pinged. The kind of guy that blends into the background until you realize he’s been in every scene of your life’s movie. I remember once at a sushi place—me, Steve, and Jennifer sitting down, eating yellowtail rolls—and he shows up, introduces the woman he’s with (way out of his league), and stares at me like I owed him a memory.
Then there was the strip club—Stars. I went with Scott Wicklin. The place smelled like glitter and regret. We sat at the edge of the stage and I spotted him again. Sitting next to a redhead who looked like he was built to hurt people for money. My little drink-buying stalker sat beside him like a misplaced gnome. There was a scuffle—words, shoves, a push—and the leprechaun gets escorted outside. The redhead follows, veins bulging.
I don’t know why, maybe the Pendleton whiskey was doing the talking, but I followed them out. Saw the redhead sizing him up like it was feeding time. I stepped in, calm as hell, placed my left hand on the big guy’s chest, looked him dead in the eyes, and said, “You don’t want me to unleash.” That was my cue. My angle. Left hand on the chest means I know where your head is. One quick move and I could’ve dropped him like a sack of wet cement. But he backed off. The leprechaun thanked me. I nodded. Still didn’t know who the hell he was.
Later, I start getting weird calls from exes. Women telling me some guy’s wining and dining them and all he talks about is me. One told me she thought he was a private investigator. Another said he asked about everything—when we met, what I was like, how I smelled. I had a few laughs, figured it was just Bend being weird.
Then Red Riding Hood calls me. Yeah, that Red Riding Hood. Tells me she’s out at dinner with some guy, and he knows more about me than she does. I brushed it off. Maybe I told her to fuck off, I don’t remember. But the weirdness kept building.
Couple weeks go by and an old flame asks to meet me by the school. Pine trees, golf course, real Lifetime movie stuff. She grabs my shirt, buries her face in my chest, sobbing. “Don’t kill him,” she says. “He didn’t know. He didn’t know who I was.”
I looked around for hidden cameras. Thought it was a joke. “Kill who?” I asked.
She said it again. “Please. I know you’re with the Mexican mafia. Everyone knows. That’s why people are scared of you.”
I laughed. Loud. Like a villain in a movie.
Turns out, this guy she’s talking about—the one she’s scared I’m going to murder—was her boss. A real estate broker. The same guy Red Riding Hood had dinner with. The same guy who, apparently, was buying drinks for every woman I’d touched. Doing recon. Connecting dots. Building a fucking scrapbook of my leftovers.
The moment I stopped laughing, I said, “Tell your boss to go fuck himself. I’m not killing anybody.”
Fast forward to a Saturday night. I walk into Amalia’s, three sheets to the wind with some hot young thing on my arm. Place is packed—standing room only. Staff greets me like royalty. I nod, I wave, I shake hands like a greasy mayor up for reelection.
Then he appears. Leprechaun Boy. Double Pendleton whiskey in hand.
I take it—habit, instinct—and thank him like I’m the Pope and he’s brought me holy water. But then he grabs my hand with both of his, bows his head like he’s kissing a ring, and says:
“Thank you for not killing me. I feared for my life. I’ve never felt fear like that. I’m so thankful you forgave me.”
I just stared at him. Stared like he was a f***ing ghost. My date’s eyes widened. I realized then—this was the guy. The stalker. The dinner guest. The woman-digger. The drink-buyer. The whisperer in every ear.
“You’re that guy,” I said. “The one following up on my seconds. You’ve been trailing my shadow, sucking on the scraps, making my name your bedtime story.”
He trembled. Actually trembled.
I told him I wasn’t going to kill him, but he needed to disappear. Fade back into the nothing where he came from. He nodded, mumbled apologies, and vanished into the crowd.
To this day, we’re still Facebook friends. Go figure.
What’s the point of this story? I don’t know. Maybe that in a small town, legends grow whether you water them or not. Assumptions become rumors, rumors become gospel, and before you know it, you’re a mafia boss just because you have a tequila bar and broad shoulders.
Sometimes being feared feels good. Sometimes admiration wears a creepy face. But the truth is, nobody really knows who the hell you are. And most don’t care.
Let them dream. Let them guess.
And if they get too close?
Smile, sip your drink, and remind them who the fuck they’re dealing with.
