Cowboy Baby Daddy

This is just perfect. I’m drunk, irritated, and now starving.

As I walk down the stairs, I pull out my phone.

“Hey,” Mike answers. “Where are you?”

“He’s not there,” I tell him. “Are you out front?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Are you drunk?”

“I wouldn’t say that I’m drunk,” I tell him.

“You know, if we don’t get that guy out of there, I’m going to have to start taking you to meetings.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I say, stumbling down the final two steps to the ground floor.

“You okay?” Mike asks.

“I’m fine,” I answer. “Why?”

The knock on the glass door of the building answers the question for me.

“Are you going to let me in or what?”

I hang up and open the door.

“Are you all right?” he asks. “It looked like you rolled your ankle or something.”

“I’m fine, but we need to find the super. I forgot my keys.”

The quest takes a while as we chase Mr. Traven from floor to floor, the people in each apartment we stop at saying that he just left. If I didn’t know any better, I would swear that he’s avoiding me for some reason.

We finally catch up to him on the fourth floor, and little droplets of spit fly out as he chastises me for making such a ridiculous mistake.

Grudgingly, he walks with Mike and I back into that hallway, still filled with the fragrance of confit de canard.

“I’ll let you in,” Mr. Traven says at the door, “but you’re going to have to figure something else out next time. I’ve got two broken radiators, a refrigerator that stopped working around 3 o’clock yesterday afternoon, and six or seven toilets to unclog. I really don’t have time to save you every time you—”

“I really appreciate it, Mr. Traven,” I interrupt. “You’re an absolute lifesaver.”

The gambit works, and he opens the door without showering me or my companion with any more spittle.

As soon as the door is open, I’m struck by the smell wafting from inside.

“Smells like your roommate is quite the chef,” Mike says, stopping to sniff the air. “What is that, anyway?”

“I don’t know,” I lie.

My mind is elsewhere.

Sitting on the kitchen table is a plate of confit de canard with a note off to one side.

I walk toward it and breathe deep the succulent aroma while Mike makes his way to my side and picks up the note.

“I wanted to serve this hot, but didn’t know when you were going to get back,” Mike reads. “Thank you for renting me the room. I look forward to living here—Dane.” He looks up at me. “Well, that was nice of him.”

In my mind, I’m back in my father’s restaurant, taking no small amount of joy in the fact that I’m the only one in the whole place who doesn’t have to dress up to get a seat. Without knowing it, Dane has given me the perfect gift.

“This sucks,” I say, finally opening my eyes again.