All I do is Win, except for when I don’t

A barbed wire divides subdivision streets and the Wild West  in an area just north of Cheyenne city limits.  I cross the wire slowly, lifting one leg at a time, careful not to snag my new Levis.  I follow my future father in-law; we leave a trail of footprints in the snow.  After ten minutes and two small hills, he quietly announced that we are in the right place.  With his boots, he makes a circle in the snow and we sit cross-legged, waiting to awaken my warrior spirit, waiting for the coyote.

I stare at the surrounding hills, caressing each dip and rise with my gaze, waiting.  My future father in-law blows air through a commercially made coyote call.  I lock the bolt forward and chamber a round.  I adjust my body, resting my face close enough to the scope so the entire circle is bathed in light.  Cradling the barrel is a stand my future father in-law fashioned out of two sticks.  I softly swing the crosshairs back and forth over the landscape. 

This is not hunting in the “hunter gather” sense, but hunting purely to dull an emotional aversion to killing humans.  This is training for Afghanistan.    

We wait in the snow for close to an hour then follow our footsteps back to the house, unchanged.

Into the Frying Pan

Feet up and book in my lap, I am working at the extended stay hotel in south Denver, again—of course, when I say ‘working’ I mean that I am balancing the life and death of patrons in five-minute intervals. I am three pages from the end of a chapter when I hear that beep-beep-beep sound trucks make when in reverse. I keep reading, waiting for the noise to go away. It doesn’t. I look outside but I don’t see any trucks. Truck noise with no trucks, this is a mystery. I am about to keep reading, trying to get to the end of the paragraph, when the realization settles in my mind like a gentle snowfall: fire and smoke alarms make beeping noises too—damn.

I adjust the weapons belt around my waist and fling open the door to the hallway. Game time. I would love to write that my mind was racing but that would be a blatant lie. Sluggish from energy drink withdrawals, my mind is slowly warming up and keeps repeating the same thought: I don’t remember the words to “Navidad, Navidad,” how will I save the Latina in Lacy lingerie?

I did not have to walk far to “investigate the warning” which is good because my legs are still sore from 12-miles of endurance training on Wednesday. The door directly across from my room is ajar and smoke is sauntering out in a melancholy fashion, we appear to have matching levels of ambition. A girl in her mid-twenties is holding a spatula in one hand, she uses the other to prop open the door. She is wearing pajamas. A man’s voice inside asks if he should pour water on it.

“Did you open the window?” I ask the girl in pajamas.

She says, “Yes,” and with that, I walk away. Leaving the decisions to the girl involved always seems to work for me.

When You Are Engulfed in Flames

For Rent: one mildly attractive, 24-year old, college dropout. 5’10”. 180lbs. Moderately athletic build. Brown hair. Blue eyes.

Pay in cash and he will fulfill your fantasy, your needs. For only $9/hour, he will accompany the construction site through the night. For only $9/hour, he will attend a wedding or quienceañera, but don’t ask him to dance, he will only stand at the door. For only $9/hour, he will be the personification of a fire alarm system for an extended stay hotel during a remodel. For only $9/hour, he will be your anything.


The sign in the parking lot advertises “Studios Kitchens from $189.99 weekly,” there is no mention of the other, more refined amenities. A few examples: the wonderful aroma—a drywall plaster, cigarette smoke, and dirty carpet concoction that permeates the hallways; the ambient noise— a cacophony of television sets, bored children and short tempered parents always audible in the hallways; the security— a mildly attractive, 24-year old security guard who walks the afore mentioned hallways every twenty minutes. It’s this last feature that I find the most unnerving.

Because of the renovation process, the hotel’s fire emergency system is partially disabled so I am filling in—I am a rented set of crutches—as required by the fire marshal. Every twenty minutes, I walk each hallway (past the non-smoking rooms on the third floor that reek of marijuana) doing a modified version of the Look, Listen & Feel drill from CPR. I Look for signs of fire, I Listen for a fire alarm and I Feel a tired resilience built from twelve-hour shifts and Red Bull.

“Foot patrol of all three floors and stairs,” I write in my reports, “No signs of leaks, smoke, or fire. I did not hear any fire alarms. The fire alarm panel is clear. No guests smoking in the hallways.” The patrol takes roughly five minutes, giving me a fifteen-minute window before I have to start again. This is just enough time to update my Facebook status, masturbate to online porn, snack on sea salt roasted, California almonds, etc. “Foot patrol of all three floors and stairs…”

If I do stumble upon a fire alarm, I have a detailed list of instructions to guide me: 1. “In case of alarm proceed to main fire box and use proper procedure to silence alarm.” 2. “After silencing the alarm proceed to the area indicated on the fire panel and investigate the warning.”

There are no further instructions. Letting my imagination fill in the blank space, I teeter between two fantasies:

1. In slow motion, I kick down the door of a studio kitchen suite on the second floor, fire extinguisher in my right hand; I use my left hand to scoop up a Latina wearing lacy lingerie. I throw the damsel over my shoulder (my left one because the metal plate in my right shoulder aches in the winter) and run to a secluded place, where I serenade her—with a romantic song I learned from the free CoffeeBreakSpanish podcast—as the building burns down behind us. Navidad, Navidad, hoy es Navidad, con campanas este día hay que festejar. Navidad, Navidad, porque ya nació, ayer noche, Nochebuena, el niñito Dios

2. After discovering a fire and a smoldering set of curtains (caused by a lit joint in a non-smoking room on the third floor), I run to my suite on the second floor and quickly stuff my laptop, iPod, Perfect Push-Up travel set, and lunch box into my backpack. As I sprint down the staircase, taking stairs two at a time, I’ll dial 911 then wait for the fire truck in my car while snacking on sea salt roasted, California almonds.

Feeling a bit peckish, I am leaning toward the latter. If they tenants knew the line between living and being engulfed in flames balanced on my weary shoulders, would they smile at me in the hallways? Or move to a different hotel?

I’d leave, pack boxes and move, but I’m scheduled here again tomorrow.

Getting the Most out of my Gym Membership

Its 5:30, the sun has punched out for the day and the thermometer outside my window reads 0˚. I pull on a pair of store-brand polyester pants and a t-shirt from a charity 5k. I am going to milk the last drops of my daily ambition and hit the gym—some treadmill intervals, some weights, and finish off with a 20-minute scramble up the Stairmaster. While waiting for my iPod to sync, a Pro-Con list builds in my head.

Pro: I would feel silly walking around the house in gym pants
Con: I look silly walking around in gym pants
Pro: Exercise is healthy
Con: A hot bowl of gluten-free chicken noodle soup is healthy

I turn on the stove.