One of the things I've come to miss during the pandemic is going out with my husband to grab a beer at our favorite dive. Even an antisocial wretch like me enjoys a noisy, dusty, smelly, crowded bar once in a while. The kind with pool tables and a jukebox full of dinosaur rock and terrible, watery beer served in scratched up ancient glass pitchers. You probably know the sort of place I'm talking about. America is full of them. Anyway, that nostalgia for alcoholic awfulness brought back a memory from the early days of my marriage. Ever look back on some event from your past and think, "well it seemed like a good idea at the time"? No? M'kay. Maybe it's just me.
So, one chilly evening about 23 years ago Paul (my beloved spouse) and I went out for a beer at the Chaparral. Our favorite bar in Cottonwood. Paul seems nearly immune to cold but me, not so much. I wore my duster aka drover's coat.
It was big and roomy and warm, and best of all, water and spilled beer proof. Once we found a seat the cheery barmaid came to take our order. Paul of course ordered the usual. It was happy hour, and a pitcher of beer cost less than a pitcher of soda would now. For some reason our server was pushing Jagermeister; she told me, with a completely straight face, that you could get roaring drunk on Jagermeister without having a hangover the next day. And I believed it. (That lady probably sells real estate now, and has made an absolute fortune) The stuff tasted perfectly vile. But it had an immediate impact. I decided I loved it.
While Paul shot pool with some random guy (for funsies of course, because playing for money is illegal you know) I sat there enjoying my buzz after three or four shots of glorified Nyquil. (It might actually have been more; I don't know) My gaze fell upon the stuffed armadillo sitting on the bar. He normally occupied a shelf on the wall behind. I had no idea how he migrated down there, but I felt sorry for him. He was already dusty and shabby looking, and now he was jostled by tipsy bikers getting worked up about something that no doubt seemed very important to them. (I couldn't understand a word they said, and have no idea what sort of things tipsy bikers argue about) And getting splashed with nasty watery beer. I was, I admit, moved to pity. Those beady glass eyes seemed to see into my very soul. Pleading for help. For rescue.
Paul won his game, collected his winnings (oops, did I say winnings? I meant, collected his unused quarters) and came to take me home. One look at me must've convinced him it was past time to leave. He helped me up (he was being a gentleman but the truth is I needed help to stand by that point) And as we made our way past the bar, I grabbed the taxidermy armadillo. Stuffed it under my coat and walked (okay, wobbled) right out. If anyone noticed, they didn't raise the hue and cry.
On the drive home I opened the car window, held my new friend outside to breathe the free air, and gave voice to his yearnings by barking like a Rottweiler on meth. Paul took one look and hit the gas.
Next day I awoke with a hangover that could kill a rhinoceros. That barmaid lied! And before I could even remember the role I'd played in my own misery, my bleary eyes fell upon the proof of my crime. Sitting not a foot away. Regarding me with accusing, baleful, beady glass eyes. YOU BITCH. You took me from my home! KIDNAPPER. Shame! And holy hell but he did look pitiful. Covered in at least a decade's worth of dust, tail nearly broken off, bits of hide flaking away, just terrible. (In my own defense I will say that the damage was already there and not inflicted by me.)
So now I felt not only like a portal to Hell had opened in my guts and head, but guilty too. Thievery was, and is, extremely out of character for me.
In between bouts of puking and feeling very sorry for myself, I spent the day cleaning him up and attempting to repair his tail. Early the following morning Paul drove us back to the Chaparral. I had the taxidermy armadillo packaged up neatly with a short note apologizing for having stolen him. I left him like a foundling outside the door for the first employee to find at opening time.
A few weeks later, Paul and I went back. The armadillo was now sitting on the highest shelf behind the bar. Inaccessible without a ladder, unless you're Wilt Chamberlain. From that day to this, I've never stolen anything. And I've never been so much as tempted to drink Jagermeister again.