Cowboy Baby Daddy

“In Hebrew, every letter is also a number. I guess the Hebrew word for butterfly adds up to 560.”

“Yeah, whatever,” I tell her. “How long do we have to stay?”

“Oh, we just got here,” she says. “Let’s get a drink and keep an eye on that wall.”

As we walk over, I watch the wall. Picture after picture of men and women, holding up bagged shirts with numbers flash across it, and I don’t know if there’s enough alcohol in this place to make that not seem a little creepy to me.

I guess we’re going to find out.

“So,” Annabeth says, “it’s not as bad as you thought it would be, is it?”

I’m not listening.

“Lei-Lei?”

I’m watching an older gentleman burying his face in the bag marked 560, and there’s a weird dichotomy going through my head at the moment.

One part of me feels kind of violated having a stranger sniff my very worn, very unwashed shirt. The other part of me hopes he goes over and takes his picture with it. I know it sounds weird, but I really don’t want to have to go through that kind of rejection.

I smell good, damn it.

The man puts my shirt back on the table where he got it, and I’m about ready to walk over there and ask him just what’s so unattractive about the way I smell when Annabeth puts a hand on my shoulder.

“You all right?”

“Yeah,” I say. “He didn’t get his picture taken.”

She giggles.

“I told you you’d have a fun time,” she says. “Freak.”

“Why wouldn’t he want to get his picture taken with my shirt?” I ask. “I’ve got a good smell.”

“Don’t take it personally,” she says. “Different people look for different things. Sometimes, it’s just an instinct thing. What are you drinking?”

“Tequila,” I tell her.

“Yeah,” she says to the bartender, “can I get a tequila sunrise—”

“No sunrise,” I tell her, “just the tequila.”

If I’m going to make it through this night and all the weird rejection issues it’s bringing up, I’m going to want to get pretty buzzed.

“What number were you?” I ask after she finishes ordering our drinks.

“68,” she says. “Don’t even ask me what that one means.”

“That guy’s holding up your bag,” I tell her, and point at the wall.

She cringes.

“What’s wrong with him?” I ask.

“He’s got the stalker eyes,” she says. “Notice how his eyelids are a little too open and he’s just got that blank expression on his face? Yeah, I’m not going through that shit again.”

“Again?” I ask.

“Yeah,” she says. “Not really something I want to talk about right now, though. Hey, look at that,” she says, nudging me. “560! Go up and introduce yourself.”