She’d been on the road since she was twenty and knew all the types, which guys were too high on themselves, which guys simmered with underdog rage, which guys cleaned their glasses over and over again like that would help them see the world more clearly. She laughed whenever she heard someone at a party said that men were the same the world over. “Come with me to a little place called Fetch Me a Memory,” she said. Maybe it was the one when the high school principal stood outside her hotel room and lowed like a cow. Maybe it was the one when she got out of the car and saw the mayor coming toward her with a bouquet of spray-painted roses. Maybe it was the one where she tied a father and son down on a hotel bed and read to them from the Bible. Decades of fieldwork firehosed out of her, and usually she was so charged up that she couldn’t get to sleep without two or three drinks and another hot night she could turn to story.
©2021 Ben Greenman/Stupid Ideas
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