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My old job had me traveling a lot, sometimes for months at a time, all over the world. Living out of hotel rooms is fun, but you crave human contact. By sheer luck, I happened to live on the same street as Texas BBQ, a restaurant run by an old shit-kickin’ expat that my memory has named Coy Mc Colt. I cornered her by the bar, wrote my phone number down, and put it into her pocket.
He followed us in and sat down at the table directly across from me. I didn't understand a word, but I liked that they respected me enough to not talk about me while I stared on dumbly. I sat down on the couch and opened another beer, which the waitress knocked out of my hand while pouncing on me. It was nothing but a passionate blur of hands and tongues.
He ordered a pack of smokes and began plowing through them. The brother walked over to me, bowed, then slapped my shoulder repeatedly. She slowed down the pace before I could get her shirt off.
She would come over and refill my beer the moment which I had only just learned so I could tug at my collar and say it in a Jerry Lewis voice. When I got there, I saw her talking to a dude on a motorbike. He owed the equivalent of three dollars for his smokes and three coffees. “We no have money.” It all hit me right then and there.
She spoke a bit of broken English, so I kept things simple. She informed me that this was her brother and that he gave her a ride from her house, which was pretty far from the city. I'm sure you remember those old Looney Tunes when two chums would be stuck on a desert island and the fat one would be looking at the skinny one, then hallucinate that he turned into a hot dog, and the fat one turned into a hamburger? They were poor, probably lived in some shack near the swamps, where a lot of the poorest working-class people lived. It was time to take off my “getting my dick wet" helmet and put on my “party ambassador" fez. I sat down at a table alone, she came up with a cold beer and patted me on the shoulder.
Twenty bucks bought you all you could eat and drink, all day and well into the night. (Note: since the French occupation, district one of the city, which is still referred to as Saigon, remains remarkably French. While I devoured heaping plates of stuffing and beans, I noticed that a cute Vietnamese waitress was making eyes at me. She looked at me, and a slow smile crept across her porcelain face. In addition to the cobble-stoned roads, there’s a three-fourths replica of the Paris Opera House, and a three-fourths replica of the Notre Dame cathedral.) I practically skipped from my house to the date rendezvous point. She looked at me like I just asked her for 4 million dollars.