You got you a pretty mouth, boy

So, I'm eating dinner with Amy and her coworker at the hospital. Rebecca's husband shows up, fresh from Chili's and looking to play pool and drink some beer the night before Thanksgiving.

A foreign spirit overtakes me, and I hear it agreeing to drive out to some dive on the river and take part in those activities. As we are driving beyond all lights and other signs of civilization, I begin to think these are my last few minutes on Earth.

When we arrive at the bar, my Honda feels uncomfortable among the over-sized pick-up trucks and rebel flags. Like the car, my long bangs, hoodie, flip-flops and taste for imported beers also fall away from the characteristics of the usual patronage. And they don't like me. Especially the large good ol' boy whose seat I sat in at first.

As soon as I went to the restroom -- which was nothing more than a toilet behind a door without a lock or handle -- there were footsteps in the narrow hallway. This was it. This would be the way I die. The steps moved past the men's room to the toilet down the hall.

I zipped, realized I couldn't flush or wash my hands and went back into the country music-filled main room. Responding to the fear in my belly, I told James I felt sick and had to leave.

I cried all the way home.