Baltimore nights, Chapter 1

“Our girls have teeth!”

We both looked at each other. That certainly was an interesting way to lure a customer into one’s establishment.

“Should we?” Joe asked.

We both looked at the guy who just spoke the words that had us contemplating entering a house of some ill-repute. He was wearing a green coat, kind of dirty around the ends of the sleeves. His hat was brown, but it was too dark to see what kind of logo it used to proudly display.

The neon lights above us blinked on and off in blue and green and yellow. Not exactly the colors I would have chosen, but, I’m not in the skin trade either. And, we were contemplating going inside.

“Nah,” I replied. “I’d rather go back to Shula’s. Let’s go Sanchez.”

“You’re choice,” Joe said. For some reason, I had started calling him Sanchez during the night. It stuck, much to Joe’s adamant protests. “And stop fucking calling me Sanchez. I’m not even fucking Mexican.”

“Don’t matter, amigo,” I said with a grin.

“You owe me a fucking beer.”

“Well, let’s get drinking, drinkers.”

We stumbled down the street a little bit further. Looking at the police station, I could only think of “The Wire.” I kind of wanted Omar to come strolling around the corner with his shotgun. But we weren’t in his neighborhood. And fuck, Simon killed him off anyway. Bad decision really. He would have made a great spin off. Not that that kind of thing would have happened with one of his shows. Eh. It’s too damn cold out. We need to find the fucking hotel. And the comfort of a stool in the world’s worst sports bar, Shula’s 2 in downtown Baltimore, Mary-fucking-land.

Another block down the road, I noticed that Joe was talking to me.

“Dude, where the fuck have you been? You’re just staring off into space. Lucky your ass hasn’t been mugged yet. By me.”

On cue, there is a smell. No. An odor. Coming directly from behind us. We turn our heads in unison to check out who, what or whatever is giving off this stench.

“Howdy, boys!” a very nice looking, but smelly black man says. “You looking for something to do?”

“Nah, buddy, we’re just going to our hotel,” Joe says.

“What’s your name?” the smell says to me.

“His name is Sanchez!” I say a little too eagerly. I look at Joe. He’s pissed. I love it.

“Sanchez? You ain’t Mexican. You look I-talian.”

“Exactly,” Joe says.

“But his mom, well, she got around. So there’s no telling if he’s Mexican, I-talian, or even Republican,” I say, this time not hiding my absolute pleasure in the look that I know Joe is giving me, but I’m not even thinking of looking at him now.

“Republican? Now that’s a good one,” smell chortles. “I just want to let you guys in on something.”

We’re now in front of the Hyatt. It’s not our hotel. But it’ll do.

“Well, buddy, sorry. You’ll have to catch us next time, this is our hotel,” I say.

“Good meeting ya,” Joe says as we enter the revolving door.

“Ass hat,” Joe says to me when we get inside.

“I thought I did pretty well. We’re not still talking to him. And we have all our cash. Mission accomplished.”

“Sanchez.”

“Fuck you.”

We go back outside. We’d only bee inside maybe 45 seconds. The smell is now making his speech to a couple of hookers. Maybe strippers, but definitely into showing skin when it’s 38 degrees outside, which the bank clock right above them clearly states in L.E.D. lights.

“You think they have teeth?” Joe says.

“Go ask, Sanchez.”

“It never gets old, does it?”

“Hells no.”

We finally get back to Shula’s. There are a couple of people at a table. Three at the bar, including a single, solitary woman. She’s blonde. In some kind of suit-blouse combo thing. Clearly someone who was here for business earlier and has since fallen into disrepair.

The bartender, Steven, is a balding guy. Only about 28 years old by my guess. We sit down at the bar, leaving one seat between us and the lovely mess.

“A Yuengling for me and a Bud for my boy Sanchez!” I gleefully say, eyeing the drunken lady. She looks back at me, smiling a bit and holding up her glass -- most likely vodka, maybe tequila -- and smiling. I get my beer, tilt it at her, and clink glasses with Sanchez and then her. One swig and me and Joe/Sanchez begin our witty banter about teeth, concerts and stumbling around in Baltimore.

Before I know it, she’s in the middle of the conversation, but it has clearly been steered towards what she wants to talk about -- her asshole of a husband.

Her words. Not mine.