The Come On Inn

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Jamey Maxwell is drawing nearer. He is now leaving Del Rio headed for Sandersville, county seat of Torres County. He finds that he has an overwhelming thirst, even greater than usual, for an ice cold Miller-Lite longneck. He sees the sign for the Come On Inn and decides he must pull over. I hear him open the door of his old beat up blue truck. He closes the driver door. I hear his footsteps crunching the gravel. He opens the front door of the Come On Inn.


 


“Hey cowboy, how’s it hangin’?” I ask.


 


“To the left, as always,” he answers.


 


Twenty-three men sitting at booths, tables, and the bar, stop their assorted conversations to stare at Jamey Maxwell. I told you earlier that I chose my incarnation on earth as a woman living in a trailer park in Del Rio and working as a barmaid at the Come On Inn. What I didn’t tell you is that I chose, for now, to look like Claudia Schiffer, the German supermodel. If I were dressed only in my underwear and had soft, white feathery wings sprouting from my back (as you humans like to picture us angels,) I would look just like Claudia in one of her Victoria’s Secret commercials. If you saw the real me, a Seraph, you would fall to the ground and choke on your own vomit. Enoch described us as “fiery serpents having six wings and four heads.” Enoch didn’t have a clue.


 


Jamey looks around at all the men, mostly younger than him, and says, “I can’t believe the county fire marshal hasn’t shut you down for occupancy overload.”


 


“That’s him at the end of the bar over there,” I say, pointing to the county official. The fire marshal turns various shades of red for various reasons.


 


Jamey looks at him and asks, “Do you believe in spontaneous combustion?” Jamey gets no answer. He can tell the testosterone fumes are rising.


 


“How ‘bout I bring you a cold Miller-Lite, darlin’?”


 


“You read my mind, sweetheart,” Jamey replies.


 


So with twenty-three jaws, and penises, at half-mast and twenty-three sets of eyes glaring holes through Jamey Maxwell, I bring him a cold beer. And to up the ante I say, “scoot over, lover boy,” slide into the booth beside him and give him a big kiss on the cheek. I have worked at the Come On Inn for exactly one week. The clientele has grown from one old fart to an additional twenty-two males gathered together in holy lustimony. Almost all of them married. The most they have heard come from my lips is “what can I get you?” and “thanks.” The testosterone fumes are approaching ignition point. Spontaneous combustion is a distinct possibility. This is fun.


 


 


“Do I know you?” Jamey asks.


 


“No, but I know you,” I reply.


 


And now I begin to speak in a language, a form of ancient Aramaic, neither Jamey nor anyone at this bar, nor any human alive on this planet for that matter, has ever heard spoken. I will speak this way for the next fifteen minutes and Jamey will be surprised to know that he not only understands this language but also speaks it fluently...at least for the next fifteen minutes. And then he will forget that he ever met a beautiful young barmaid at the Come On Inn on the outskirts of Del Rio or that he had ever even visited this establishment. And the other twenty-three occupants of the Come On Inn will find that for the remainder of their days on Earth they will have a fifteen minute hole in their lives which will never be filled.

Created: Aug 23, 2012

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