They say racism is the underlying reason white people move from the city like in 1945 when many African Americans moved from down South for jobs. I think it’s Community Developers including developers, investors, foundations, think tanks that generate the old recycling movement, and the Libor which sets our interest rates; these promised low rates and for better schools etc encourage people to move. This is a blessing for the developers and realtors who now stand to gain Assets, not the millions of people using federal housing insurance and financing for Home, many can’t call it an asset when it chains them to their freedom and happiness.

To the racism part, I know a few people who in 1945 lived in a city that turned to suburban sprawl, and many foriegners from Africa moved there, most families moved out with a promise and a house on the market, but they remained, many elderly, but most just as or not as racist as the next guy.

Community Developers look for Assets! Once they find a neighborhood they want to recycle, reuse, buy for the cost of dirt and sell at market or above value, gaining huge profit margins they will stop at nothing. Remember with each house sale transaction is money seeped up by the Libor too. When the water breaks, or the balloon pops like it will with nurses, Labour is the word. Labour-Libor-water breaks-pop! At what length are vultures such as developers willing to go to get their prize, Assets? And how can we save our selves?

As she nips her margarita, I had to find out more. Being the curious woman I am.

“I love this restaurant, no matter how long the wait, you can always sip on a margarita, and of course, here’s a table in case you liven up to do some ballet work! It’s either to die asleep or awake embarrassed,” I say all in one breath.

“Yeah, I love it here. I’m from Las Vegas, so…” She says sitting on the red booth that runs along the waiting area on the sides of the Mexican stripper table.

“So… what? Anyway, how do you like Vegas? How often do you fly out here?” I say assuming she flies, probably on a weekend or bi-weekly basis to meet a strange fellow on a Friday night for some drinks and whatever. I don’t judge. Wait. I am. Gosh. I’m undefined. Okay! So what? My boyfriend is strange. Side note.

“He works for the CIA,” I say, “my boyfriend,” I mean, “he says he’s from Argentina, but that’s such bullshit.” I know it. I tell them, her and the funny looking short elf next to her, giggling. The John.

“I’m 1/2 Swedish and 1/2 Mexican.” She says.

“Really, I’m 1/2 Swedish and umm 1/2 french, ” I say.

“Oh really can you speak French?” She asks.

“No.” I say. I mean, “you know, I’m in my 20’s with no accent–our family has been here a bit,” I mention lightly.

“He’s in the CIA? Really. Are you Spanish too?” She asks batting her eyes to my BF who clearly is not.

She goes on, “I was in the service too. The Marine’s.” She says, her lip near bursting. They were colorful though with lust for my BF.

“Yeah don’t they pay for school or something?” I ask for some reason, maybe because my school starts Monday and I hate paying.

My boyfriend spits out his tequila sunrise.

“Yeah,” she says, “I go to only classy places in Vegas, so I don’t know….” She says.

“Well, I’m a classy girl,” I say with my shirt unbuttoned to show off some cleavage from my Dr. appt. I was trying to get the right prescription from, which I did with my breast blooming. Her fake blonde hair tasseled in my face. Cute.

I tap on her shoulder, “I want to go somewhere real great next time I’m in Vegas. Last time I got jealous at the Mandalay Bay of the Pussy Cat Girls, and I poured a drink on my boyfriend. I respect them though.” I go on, “In fact, I used to be a dancer, tap and ballet that is. I should try out.” I say, “but I can’t sing.” I realize I’m talking too fast.

“Lo siento!” I say suddenly, as if my Spanish is well. And we fare them good bye.

“Why did you tell them I was in the CIA? You scared the shit out of the hooker and her weekend John?” My boyfriend asks and says.

“I wasn’t thinking.” I say as I walk to my car. I look next to me and an African-American woman is getting into her car, why? I don’t know, but I say, “if you were studying the bible, where would you start?” I ask the older woman in her fifty’s.

“What are you doing?” BF asks.

“What? Are you speaking to me? Well for heaven’s sake.” She says as she walks and opens her trunk. She pulls out a bible book to follow, I guess that’s what it is. “Don’t follow the old bible, the new one, not the ‘thee‘ and ‘thou‘, ” she says. A JW.

“Are you from Texas,” I ask.

“Why yes. How did you know? I haven’t lived there for since I was a child,” she held her heart.

“I don’t know? You seem so sweet, you couldn’t be from here.” I say. I wave good bye, and pull my shift stickerooo into reverse, we’re off for a mighty fine and fun filled night. I laugh and howl in the wind. Someone hospitalize me. No not really,  and I shouldn’t play around with JW’s and their prayer books. That’s not nice.

I had to be to Argentina in the morning with my husband. I wouldn’t be out too late. I pulled up to the dive bar. It was closing time. Damn. Then I spot him, the guy I met a few weeks ago, Dallas.

Then I remembered, after getting out of jail on my 24^th birthday, a few days ago, I was driving back up to L.A. I got a text. It’s from Dallas. He wants to go running again. Bam! The next thing you know a shitty car hits me on the driver side. The bloke just missed my delicate self. Fuck! My axle has been hit; steering isn’t working. The driver hands me his business card.

He’s a chiropractor, how convenient of him to go around hitting people in blown out civic. I think. I read the card, “Miracles Happen.” I laugh and pound my head on the wheel, still parked from the accident. I toss the card on the passenger seat.

I manage to steer backwards and get the car to a closed auto shop down a dark front street. I leave the keys and rent a car.

Anyway that’s the last I heard from Dallas, the night I was hit by a chiropractor.

There are crowds of people outside the bar.“Get the fuck in,” I yell towards Dallas, manic as fire. I can’t remember his name, but ‘you’ worked. He hopped in. “You’re fucking crazy, Mea! What are you doing?” I laughed and howled into the wind.

We almost make it to his door before he has me pushed up against a wall and is taking advantage of my sexual appetite.

We lie on a cot on a deck that overlooks the ocean under the stars. We decide to have a little house in Texas, and little kids. See, we’re in love. And we don’t even know each other. But what is there to know? That I’m bipolar? That he’s a hijacker of cars and trucks? Fuck it. I sing. Play with me, Dallas, my lover in the night, in the dark, where secrets lurk. Play with me. I dare you.