you know you are in for a perfectly awful encounter when one or two of these things happen to you at once:
you walk into a room that smells like smoke, look around and see twenty beer cans, but are not offered one.
the thing that is on tv is a movie in which a monkey is turned inside out inside of a transporter box.
a terrible man with an oppresive southern twang speaks loudly to anyone that will listen "LETS GO OUT TO THE BACK YARD. THERE IS A GRILL AND WE CAN EAT SOME OF THEIR FOOD. THEY'RE COOL. YOU CAN SIT AND SMOKE AND THEY'LL TALK TO YA. I WENT OUT THERE ONCE," he is smoking cigarettes and he is drunk and it is only 3 on a sunday.
(why are the windows closed. why is the tv muted, and bad music is playing, and the other two lumpy men in the room look stoned but there is no pot. i feel like the inside of an empty frito's bag.)
he goes on, "I WENT OUT THERE AND A GUY SAYD DO YOU KNOW WHUT WE CALL PEOPLE WHO DONT COME OUT HERE AND COOK THEIR OWN FOOD WHAT I SAID AND HE SAID BACK DOOR FUCKERS."
(she is out of place. her tight body and dress and perfect makeup. what is she doing here? we were on an errand. one of the men is pretending to kiss her and she tenses. everything is wrong. these people are trash. is she thinking it too? why am i here, why am i anywhere now?)
the only light is frozen in january through the wrought iron and windowpane you can see dogs and grilling and you hear laughter in the courtyard.
"BACK DOOR FUCKERS," he repeats because no one has said a word.