Weekend With Rosie
written by: David L Painter
My first thought as I woke up was: What the hell is that bright overhead light doing on? It’s got to be the middle of the night. Jeez, my arm hurts, and I feel like forty miles of bad road.
Ow! Now what?
Eyes squinting, I reached up and peeled something off that was taped to the center of my forehead. “What the…?” It was a Mercedes-Benz hood ornament.
I stared at it. Not exactly the kind of party favor you expect to wake up with. Looking around my bedroom, it took me a moment to recognize where I was, and I realized something truly terrifying: I didn’t remember a damn thing. Bits and pieces, maybe. The bar. Laughter. Something about a karaoke contest. I remembered yelling “Freebird!” at some point. But after 11:30 p.m.? Total blackout.
And still, where in the hell is that blinding light coming from?
Enough already. I staggered to the light switch and flicked it off.
Nothing changed. The room just got brighter.
I stood frozen, blinking like I was fresh out of a coma. The switch was already off. It wasn’t a bulb.
It was the sun.
Which meant it wasn’t the middle of the night, it was morning. Saturday morning.
I looked down. I had on a pair of women’s panties.
And Pink ones with Tweety Bird embroidered on the front.
And they were definitely not mine. “Oh, boy”.
I sat down, or more like collapsed onto the edge of the bed. Something tugged at my arm. That’s when I noticed the bandage. It ran from my bicep halfway down to my elbow. It was tight and neatly applied. I could feel the pain beneath it.
Very slowly, I began to peel it away. The adhesive was no joke like it had been designed by a sadist. I got the feeling whoever put it there didn’t want it removed anytime soon. Screw that. I gritted my teeth, held my breath, and yanked.
“OWWW!”
The pain was immediate, but it was the sight that made my jaw drop.
A tattoo.
WTF. A tattoo at the top of my arm, in red and black ink, was the name:
“ROSIE.”
Who the hell was Rosie?
Getting up, I stumbled into the kitchen in search of answers or at least coffee. The pot was still half full from yesterday. That felt like a miracle. I poured a mug, popped it in the microwave, drank it down black and hot, and tried to piece together the shattered events of last night.
Then it hit me: Phone.
Where the hell is my phone?
A half hour later, I found it in the freezer. Right next to what looked like a piece of cake wrapped in a napkin and a pair of cheap sunglasses.
Flipping the phone on, there was one unread text from an unknown number:
“Nice meeting you, cowboy. Rosie says hi. LOL. Don’t forget your promise.”
What. The. Hell.
There was also a selfie. I braced myself.
Yep. It was me. Shirtless. Wearing the pink panties and a cowboy hat. Holding up a hairbrush like a microphone. Beside me, laughing, in just a bra and matching pink Tweety Bird panties, was a fiery redhead with a rose tattoo on her shoulder. I guessed she was Rosie, and she looked like trouble with a capital T. Nervously, I ran my fingers through my hair.
My new tattoo itched.
Somewhere out there was someone who knew what happened and a woman I’d promised something to.
And I had no idea what that something was.
All I had was a name permanently inked on my arm, a vague sense of dread, and a weekend ahead of me to solve the mystery of just who Rosie was.
I just stood in the kitchen, staring off into space, thinking about how I try to live a clean life. So why is it some days start out simply enough? You get up, brush your teeth, grab a quick breakfast, and take your place in the gridlock heading downtown. As with most Fridays, not much was going on. The week was spiraling down to its blissed-out conclusion. By lunchtime, the whole working world was ready to turn off the lights, shut the door, and get the weekend started.
And then this happens.
Okay, now where do I go from here?
I guess it’s time to find out.
But first, I’m taking off these panties.
I tossed the Tweety Bird panties into the laundry hamper and stood there butt naked for a moment, hands on hips, trying to figure out what the hell was wrong with me and what my next move should be.
I needed clothes. I threw on a hoodie and jeans, nothing fancy, just enough to face the world without getting arrested. I made a half-hearted attempt to comb my hair, but it looked like a bird had spent the night nesting in. Grabbing my wallet, keys, and my still frozen phone, which was now thawing on the counter, I headed out.
I didn’t know what I was looking for exactly, but the napkin that the cake was wrapped in had the name Dog House Best Bar and Grill printed on it. Hell, I know that place as I go there often. Ok, retracing my steps was as good a plan as any.
First stop: The Dog House. The dive bar near my apartment where a lot of my bad decisions are made. It was barely 10 a.m., but the door was cracked open, and the neon beer sign was buzzing like a bunch of angry bees.
Inside, the place looked like it always did, dim lights, sticky floors, and a faint smell of my old regrets. The bartender, a guy named Ronny with a ponytail and a greying shaggy beard, looked up from his crossword puzzle.
“Well, well,” he said. “If it ain’t Mr. Freebird himself.”
“You remember me last night?” I asked, sliding onto a stool.
Ronny chuckled. “Hell yes, man. Do you?”
“Bits and pieces. Karaoke. Some kind of contest?”
“You got up on the bar, screamed ‘THIS ONE’S FOR YOU AMERICA’ and sang ‘Freebird’ like your life depended on it. I think you might’ve cried a little.”
Flashes started coming back like a film that had jumped its track.
“You were with a redhead,” he added. “Real firecracker and she was hammered just like you. She even challenged some guy to arm wrestling, beat him, and then you two bought the whole place a round of shots. Called herself Rosie.”
“Any idea where she went?” I asked.
“Out the door, arm in arm with you. Around 1 a.m., I got to tell you, man, I think someone slipped something in your drink, you were way too out of it to be drunk,” he said. “Oh, and you left this.”
He reached under the bar and handed me a rhinestone-encrusted pink purse.
I stared at it. “This isn’t mine.”
“No kidding, Sherlock.”
I opened it. Inside was a pack of Beachnut gum, a hotel room keycard, and a Dog House napkin with a lipstick kiss, and a hotel logo card with Room 212 printed on it from The Driftwood Inn. That is just a few blocks away. Not a very Classy place. Taking a deep breath, I headed over, figuring I was now officially going down the rabbit hole.
The lobby felt like a trip back in time and not in a good way it wreaked of old age with an unhealthy dose of sin thrown in. Two worn-out green chairs and an overstuffed matching couch sat on a threadbare carpet that rounded out the room. A heavy-set woman at the front desk looked up as I walked in. She squinted under heavy, made-up eyes, then smiled, showing yellowing teeth highlighted by bright red lipstick. There was a half-full bottle of beer sitting on the counter beside her, she took the last drag of a cigarette before crushing it out in an overflowing ashtray.
“Oh, you’re the guy from last night. The one with the pink boa and the glitter cowboy hat,” she said.
“I’m gonna need to stop being remembered like that,” I muttered. “Any chance you can tell me who rented Room 212?”
“I’m sorry, sir,” she answered in her deep southern drawl. “Guest info is very private.”
I pulled the pink purse out of my hoodie pocket and set it on the counter.
Her eyes widened. “Oh! You’re that guy.”
She leaned closer. Her breath smelled of cigarettes and beer. “She left a note for you.”
Reaching over the counter, she handed it to me.
This one was scribbled on hotel stationery in red ink:
“Had to run. I got to get some things taken care of. Don’t forget you promised me. I’m trusting you. P.S. Don’t forget about Max. He’s also counting on you.”
Look at her, I ask, “Got any idea where I could find her?”
“Nope,” came back the answer.
“Well, has she lived here long?”
“I don’t know.”
Her crooked smile told me I was getting nowhere fast, it looked like I would need some luck and a lot of it to find her, and I was running out of it fast. And who the hell was Max? Her Husband? A dog? A bookie?
Man, this just keeps getting weirder.
I stood there in the hotel lobby, holding the note, feeling the tattoo on my arm pulse like tiny red hot needles sticking me. There was no denying it now, I was smack dab in the middle of something, and it wasn’t just a hangover. She knew me, and I didn’t know much about her, only her name was Rosie, and she had plans for me. I just didn’t know what they were. “Yet”.
Stepping out of the Driftwood Inn with the sun now glaring down like it had all the answers to my questions and wasn’t telling, I tried to piece the pieces of this puzzle together in my mind.
I had a tattoo I didn’t remember getting, a pair of pink Tweety Bird panties, a purse I couldn’t explain, a redhead I couldn’t forget, and now a mysterious “Max” depending on me for something, all of this gave me a headache, but I had to find out.
My phone buzzed. It was a text:
“Hope you’re on your way. Max is getting impatient.”
Beneath the message was a pin-drop location. I tapped it, somewhere on the edge of town near the old train yard.
I drove over to the location, stopping in front of an old faded red brick warehouse with a leaning mailbox and a hand-painted sign that read: “Rosie’s Rescue Ranch.”
I figured this must be the place.
I walked up the broken sidewalk, past a crooked picket fence and a faded inflatable Santa Claus.
The front door opened before I could knock. There stood a redhead, wearing a sleeveless blue shirt, denim shorts, and cowboy boots. That rose tattoo on her shoulder left no doubt it was Rosie!
“Glad you could make it,” she said, arms crossed, a smirk dancing on her lips. “Nice hoodie.”
I tugged at it self-consciously. “Morning.”
She stepped aside. “Come on in. Max is waiting.”
Inside was a chaotic wonderland of rescue animals, barking, meowing, clucking. A goat trotted by wearing a pink tutu.
Rosie didn’t blink.
“You promised,” she said, tossing me a broom and a long-handled shovel. “So start scooping.”
“I promised to shovel poop?”
“You promised to help with this place.” She grinned. “But I’ll tell you this, you sure sang your heart out last night, we laughed our asses off, and you were adorable.”
A few hours later, I had hay in my shoes, fur all over me, and I didn’t smell that great.
But Max was awesome. A big old golden lab with soft doe eyes and a crooked tail. He followed me around like we were lifelong friends.
“Found him abandoned over at the train yard,” Rosie said, handing me a sandwich. “This is where I take in most of the tough cases. The ones nobody else wants.”
I nodded. “Makes sense.”
“So… you don’t remember anything, huh?”
I glanced at her. “Bits and a few pieces. Not the important parts.”
She sat beside me on the old loading dock, our feet dangling off the front.
“Well, let me fill in some blanks. You got on stage, sang your face off, bought the bar a round, beat me in karaoke and then cried when you told me your story. Said you were tired of the same old bull crap. That you wanted something real. Something that mattered.”
That sounds like something that I would say.
“So I dared you. Said if you were serious, prove it. Come here this weekend. Help out. Start something different. And if you made it through the weekend without quitting or crying… I’d let you take me out for a real dinner.”
She winked.
“And then you got the tattoo,” she added casually. “Before we ended back at my place. Don’t worry, nothing happened besides we were way too drunk to do anything. Oh yeah, you put on a pair of my panties and ask be to take some pictures, and you left.”
Thinking to myself that explained a lot, but not the wedding cake or the sunglasses or even the hood ornament, but I guess some things are better off not knowing.
I touched my arm.
It still itches, and it still said “Rosie.”
And for once… I didn’t mind.
The animals were bedded down. The sun had set. I stood out back watching Max chase fireflies.
Rosie handed me a beer. “You did good today.” She nudged me. “Takes guts to show up when you don’t remember why. Most people wouldn’t.”
I nodded. “So what now?”
“Well,” she said, looking up at the stars, “tomorrow’s Sunday. We could rebuild the chicken coop, give Max a bath, if you want, and maybe… have that dinner you promised, and who knows, we’ll take it from there.”
I smiled. “Sounds nice. I would like that.”
And that’s how the weirdest, wildest, most ridiculous weekend of my life ended with me holding a cold beer, watching a dog, and the beginning of something real.
I still didn’t remember how it all started.
But I am damn sure glad it did.
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