Tabatha Deans

Bringing Integrity to the Written Word



Throughout my life I have had men buy me drinks, dinner and gifts. But today a curious thing happened with a gentleman on the 52 bus. The 52 serves Denver Health, which is where I fill my prescriptions. My monthly visits are always a lesson in humility, as I stand in the long line of people waiting for our drugs. There is always someone missing a leg, usually their stump is wrapped in the dirty rags of the homeless. Someone is usually talking about the cancer they got, and there is the old man or woman, skeletal and sickly, slumped in the chair while a family member waits in line for them.

Today was not so busy, the weather was bad and people don’t like to venture out if they don’t have to. My usual hour long wait took only 30 minutes, which meant my bus transfer was still good. I hurried to the bus stop and joined the line of waiting riders. An elderly gentleman stood in front of me, and he struck up a conversation immediately. His clothes were dirty, and his gray beard was stained brown around his lips from smoking cigarettes. We chatted about the weather and he asked where I was going. I told him downtown, and I was happy because my transfer was still good. As the bus approached he took out his wallet and made a motion with his hand.

 ” Put that away. Your transfer’s no good here. I got this.” I tried to explain that my transfer was valid, and I couldn’t use it any other time, but he proudly displayed his pass to the bus driver and declared “she’s with me.” I followed him onto the bus and sat in the seat opposite him.

 “I got a companion pass.” He said. “I can get anyone I want on any bus or train. You wanna go  to breakfast? I just got my social security check.”

Flattered but a little creeped out, I graciously declined and got off at the next stop. He smiled big and squeezed my hand as I got up to leave, and I suspect he spent the rest of the day bragging to his friends about the “pretty little” thing he treated to a bus ride.


May 3, 2013 Posted by | Uncategorized | , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Billiards Gangnam Style

Always in search of new adventures, Robert and I are randomly working our way through Denver’s pool halls. I have learned how to play snooker, three ball, and several other games, including a few we made up ourselves. We have played in dive bars, pretentious bars, and one bar where something was not at all right, and even though we could not tell what was wrong the atmosphere was creepy enough to send us scurrying out the door.

The pool halls are usually dimly lit and serve alcohol and food, we usually share a pitcher of beer and an appetizer. This week’s hall of interest was a place called Q. It was a small place, at the end of a tiny strip mall, with a lingerie shop across the parking lot. When we entered we were bombarded with lighting bright enough to make me wonder if they were doing surgery on the tables instead of playing pool. After the glare wore off and my eyes adjusted, I realized two things. Three actually. We were the only Caucasians in the place, the dozen or so patrons had all stopped playing to watch us with interest, and the pool tables didn’t have any pockets in them. There was no sign of a bar or snack bar either. Hmmm.

The proprietor greeted us with a big smile and warm welcome. I got the feeling they didn’t often have fresh players wander in off the street. He attempted to explain the game that didn’t involve pockets, which I pretended to understand. Heled us to one of only two tables that had pockets, then ceremoniously presented me with a pool stick to use for the evening. It had been signed by a famous player, and he was quite proud of it. I felt honored that he would trust me with it, and hoped it would bring me good luck.

Eventually the others lost interest in us, or at least resumed their games and watched us more slyly. Except the proprietor and two other men, who continued to scrutinize our game and offering tidbits of advice. A sign on the wall pointed the way to refreshments, complimentary to any paying pool player. I followed the direction of the arrow, always in search of food, and stopped at a round folding table that sat in the corner of the room. The refreshment table. In the middle of which sat a loaf of bread, a jar of peanut butter and one of jelly, and a basket full of hard boiled eggs. I passed on the refreshments. The fancy stick brought me good luck, and we thanked the gentleman kindly when we settled up after a few games.

May 3, 2013 Posted by | Uncategorized | Leave a comment