I was in my usual spot at the bar, nursing a drink, letting my buddy’s voice drone on like a busted air conditioner. Didn’t matter what he was saying. Bars aren’t for conversation; they’re for killing time, for numbing the edges with noise and chatter until you feel like you’re almost part of something human.
Except some guy a few seats down kept trying to make it a party of three. Chiming in, slipping his little opinions into the cracks of our conversation like a goddamn cockroach. First time, I let it slide. Second time, I gave him the look—the one that says, what the hell do you think you’re doing? The third time, the charity ran out.
I turned to him, slow. “Dude,” I said. “Go get your own damn friend.”
I gestured with my glass across the room to a beautiful Mexican woman sitting at the corner of the bar, leaning forward, her chest resting on the polished wood like an offering to whatever gods were still listening.
“There,” I said. “That’s where your energy belongs. Not here. Not with me.”
He didn’t say another word. Just sort of… evaporated. Slipped back into that void where lonely men go when the world doesn’t play along.
With that bit of housekeeping done, I finished my drink, said my goodbyes, and ducked into the office to handle some business. Ten, maybe twenty minutes. When I came back out, the woman was still there. Still alone.
That got my attention.
I slid onto the stool next to her. Ran through the usual script. What’s your story? What brings a girl like you to a dive like this? I acted like I gave a shit. I didn’t. But after a while, pretending is just breathing.
Before she could spin her own yarn, I saw something outside the window. A limo. A long, black limo, rare in this town as a goddamn honest politician. A peacock in a dumpster.
I didn’t even think. I stood up. “Come with me,” I said.
She hesitated, but only for a second. The boredom, the whiskey, the strangeness of it—it was enough. I grabbed her hand and led her outside into the night. We crossed the street to where the limo was idling, the driver leaning against the fender, smoking a cigarette.
“Evening,” I said, all charm and bullshit. “My fiancée and I are looking at wedding options. Mind if we see what we’re paying for?”
The driver gave me a knowing smirk. He’d seen worse scams than this one, but he was bored too. He swung the back door open. We climbed in. Plush leather, a full bar, dim lights that made every bad decision feel cinematic. I turned to her, leaned in, and kissed her. It was instinct, pure and simple. And just like that, we were all over each other in the back of a car that wasn’t ours, playing the part of a happy couple with a bright future, instead of two strangers tumbling towards a cheap, temporary oblivion.
Then reality tapped me on the shoulder. “Come on,” I said. “Let’s go.”
We slipped out the other side, giving the confused driver a little wave, and headed for Pine Tree Park. There’s a little staircase there, leads down to a private overlook above the Deschutes River. It was dark, quiet, secluded. The perfect stage for the next act.
And the next act came. Mother Nature took over. There was no romance to it. Just biology. Quick. Intense. Two animals getting the business done in the dark.
Afterward, I walked her back up the stairs, ever the gentleman. Went back to my office for a minute. By the time I came out, the bar was empty. The world had moved on. So had I.
Or so I thought.
Three days later, my manager leans against my office doorframe. “Hey,” he says, “our little friend from the other night got herself in a jam.”
I blinked. “What little friend?”
“The Mexican girl.”
Oh. Her.
Turns out she’d gotten pulled over. Had a prior DUI. Needed seven hundred bucks for bail. And her husband—wait, what?—couldn’t, or wouldn’t, come up with the cash.
Husband. That was new information.
I leaned back in my chair, stared at the ceiling. Did I care? No. Twenty years of a miserable marriage had taught me one valuable lesson: paying for intimacy wasn’t shameful. It was efficient. This was just another transaction.
“Get her out,” I said, waving him off. Seven hundred dollars for a woman’s freedom? Hell of a bargain.
That night, a pounding on my office door. I opened it. There she was. Tears, mumbled thank-yous, the whole nine yards. “How can I ever repay you?” she asked.
I wasn’t a fool. I wasn’t setting up a payment plan. “Just work here,” I said. “Be loyal.”
And that’s how she became one of the most loyal people I’ve ever known. She took care of me when I was sick, brought me menudo from home, made sure I had a warm meal when I was working late. The slate was wiped clean. The debt was paid.
But of course, a small town can’t let a story lie. She got pregnant.
And suddenly, everyone needed answers. Her husband—some unemployed, wannabe DJ with two kids from another woman—swore up and down the baby wasn’t his. And for some goddamn reason, the town decided it must be mine. The rumors spread like a grease fire. Maybe it was the way she spoke about me, with that fierce loyalty. Maybe it’s just that people love a good scandal more than they love the boring truth.
So, I decided to play into it. To give them a real show.
I called my cook, Juan, told him to bring me a bowl of milk. I gathered the whole staff around the big patio table, a little congregation for my sermon. With everyone watching, I took her hand. I sprinkled a heavy coat of black pepper onto the surface of the milk.
“If this baby is your husband’s,” I announced, my voice booming, “the milk will show us a sign.”
She looked at me, her eyes wide with confusion. I dipped my own clean finger into the bowl. Nothing. The pepper just sat there.
Then I looked at her. “Now,” I said, my voice low, “think about who you want the father to be.”
While she closed her eyes, pretending to pray, I discreetly rubbed a tiny, invisible smear of dish soap on the tip of her finger. Then I guided her hand to the bowl. The second her soapy finger touched the surface, the pepper exploded away, scattering to the edges like cockroaches when you flip on the lights.
She fainted. Dropped like a sack of bricks right there on the patio. The waitresses screamed. One of them, a good Catholic girl, actually crossed herself like she’d just witnessed the second coming.
I just sat back, took a long sip of my drink, and watched the beautiful chaos unfold. Was it childish? Maybe. Was it a mean sonofabitch thing to do? Absolutely. Was it hilarious? Goddamn right it was.
Months passed. I was deep in the trenches of my own divorce when the phone rang. It was her husband. “You should be here,” he said.
“Where?”
“The hospital.”
So I went. Walked right into that delivery room like I owned the place, past the doctors and nurses, the ice chips and the screaming. And then, finally, there it was.
The baby.
A dark-skinned, beautiful, Jamaican-looking baby.
Not mine. Not even close. Obviously.
I stood there for a minute, arms crossed, just waiting. Waiting for an apology, for a look of recognition, for any goddamn thing. None came.
I could have ended the whole game months ago. Could have told them all about the vasectomy I’d had years before. No more kids for me, ever. But why ruin a perfectly good mystery? Why spoil the town’s fun?
I let a small smirk creep onto my face. Turned, and walked out of that hospital room.
Because sometimes, letting them wonder is a hell of a lot more fun than telling them the truth.
