The diabla takes his last gota
Bryan had been walking a long while on the Road of Shame, exhausted after being rushed by dogs an hour earlier and walking in public in wetted pants since then. The heat of the day, despite it being late fall and not quite noon, had also taken its toll on him. Like a mariner searching the horizon for signs of land, he was desperate to see the railroad tracks, which demarcated the edge of the Southside.
“Keep going,” he told himself.
He had enough money to buy refreshments at one of the several gasoline stations and convenience stores he passed, but he remembered the admonishment about his “fat wallet” by his temporary companion at the start of his trek.
“Suck it up,” he steeled himself.
Then he saw the fantastical mirage of a beautiful young blonde woman standing beside a white car looking at him as if she was waiting for him.
The image grew clearer as he approached.
“You know what gota is?” the young blonde asked Bryan when he got close to her.
“No,” said Bryan.
“Around here, it means gasoline. I’m out of it,” she said.
“You too look like you’re out of gota. I’ll ride you home if you get me some.”
“Where?” Bryan said.
The blonde pointed to a gas station immediately behind her.
Bryan was astounded. He hadn’t noticed the station until she pointed to it.
“I’ll get some,” he said and went in to pay for a tank of gas.
When he came out, the blonde was waiting for him, a pair of big mirror sunglasses on and ready to go.
Bryan got in beside her and, only then, noticed a massive Pitbull dog in the back seat.
He was so dazed by what he’d experienced that morning walking from the county jail that the idea of sitting in a car with a big dog at his back and a strange beautiful young woman seemed to be something he’d somehow done before.
“I live on the other side of town,” Bryan told the blonde.
“I know,” she responded.
“I know you?” he asked.
“You do, and I know you,” she said.
Bryan tried to recall how he knew her. Nothing came to mind. His face grew taunt trying to remember.
“Don’t worry. I’ll take you home,” she reassured him.
He then noticed that her blonde hair was dyed, which somehow seemed to be important to bear in mind.
A year later, Bryan was walking again past the spot where he met the beautiful blonde woman and was jousted out of his train of thought. There was no gas station. And he had no memory of his life after that day, only that he had to keep walking back and forth from the county jail.
“Gota. Gota. What does that mean?” he asked himself.
