same place the fly got smashed

I don’t know why the bartender didn’t wake me up last night. Maybe he tried. Maybe he got tired of the same routine. Maybe he didn’t think to look under the back table. Or maybe he cherished the spectacle of seeing me woken up by the morning cleaning crew.

They didn’t speak English. My Spanish isn’t as good as it should be, but I understood that one of them was about to call the police.

“Dormía. Lo siento. Voy a salir ahora.”

I sprang to my feet and dusted the stale Cheetos crumbs from my jacket while I fumbled for my keys. It was then that my Blackberry signalled an upcoming appointment.

“Interview. Oh fuck.”