It was Saturday, December 26, 1988.

I’d driven back to the Twin Cities early in the morning; I’d left Jamestown at a frigid 8AM, and arrived back in the Twins early in the afternoon.

I walked into the house; it reeked of chiba and…something else. I couldn’t quite place it, but it was hideous.

Wyatt was sitting on the living room couch, with a flamboyant-figured, devastatingly-gorgeous blonde woman. Both were wearing bathrobes.

“Dude”, Wyatt grunted. “Hey, Chris locked his cat in his room!”.

Chris – our somewhat-emotionally-challenged roommate – had a cat. The cat usually had leave to wander the house – but Chris had gone to visit his mom for Christmas, down in Burnsville, and locked the cat in his room while he was gone.

I’d never really had pets in my life, so I didn’t quite know the full import of “un-neutered male cat”.

“Oh, hey – this is Teresa”, Wyatt said, nodding to the woman on the couch. “C’mon up…”

I should take a moment to point out that Wyatt, in addition to being a smoker and a drinker and a heavy pot smoker, was an inveterate (albeit inept) gambler. He also had a thing for the ladies; he usually brought a different one home every night. This, however, was the third or fourth time I’d seen Teresa.

“Hi”, I said, following Wyatt to Chris’ room.

“I think she’s gonna be a regular thing”, Wyatt whispered conspiratorially as we walked up the hall to Chris’ door.

“Like, girlfriend?” I asked.

“Sure. She’s awesome”.

Then, a change of subject; “Smell that?”

It smelled bad, and the door was shut. I whipped out my driver’s license, stuck it into the lock, and popped it open…

…and was bowled over by the stench, as the cat ran out between us.

The landlord came over later in the day, took one whiff, and said Chris had to go. “Now”.

———-

I had a new bar to work that night, so I grabbed a quick nap, took a shower, and got ready.

The bar was “Jams”, in Brooklyn Center. It was another bowling-alley bar, smaller and smokier and more-cramped than “City Limits”, but a shorter drive. They also made a really mean burger basket.

I started at 8:30. By 10:15, I had a full floor, and I kept it that way until closing time. The manager – a portly woman in her late thirties with a face frozen in a permanent scowl – came by the booth. “You’re pretty good! Great job!”, she said, scowling.

———-

I came home around 2AM. Wyatt was on the couch with a woman. Not Teresa, in this case; short, dark-haired, very Hispanic-looking.

“Hey, Mitch”, Wyatt said, “This is Ruby”.