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It was just a sucky day. I overslept for work and had to skip breakfast. Some prettyboy in a Miata almost took off my front fender on the way to work, and when I got there, I found out that I had not one but two holes in my favorite shirt. I lost the Finley account to a rival who just happens to have been my old business partner at an earlier time. To top it off, I lost my jacket God-knows-where and I cracked my head open on a closed door.

I was glad to see the day end. Hopefully, I could just get home as quickly as state speed limits would allow and board myself up in front of the TV to wait out the rest of the evening. I almost made it to my car.

"Hey!" my boss yelled to me in the parking lot. I stopped and slowly turned to face him. Under my breath, I wished someone would shoot me. Or him. I was too tired to care which. He closed in for the kill. "Do you think you could finish this before Thursday?" he asked, handing me a folder the size of a NYC phonebook. What could I have said?

"Sure," I beamed. "I'd love to. See you tomorrow." I went to my car and he disappeared back into the building. I buckled up, placing my new voluminous friend squarely in the passenger seat. "I'd love to...shove it down your throat sideways." I took off.

I had driven three miles, maybe four, when thick white smoke began to pour out from under my hood. The engine began to sputter, and then it died completely. I pulled it over into a vacant parking lot just as it coasted to a stop. I got out and started walking. I don't know what I was looking for: a garage, a phone, a giant cliff so I could pitch myself off of it? Doesn't matter. I know what I found. I'd never even known it existed. It was like a giant enigmatic...establishment. I pronounced the neon sign slowly and out loud. "Joe's..." I was inside in a matter of seconds.

It was a bar. A dark, smoky atmosphere immediately surrounded me. There was a blues band in the back corner just sort of squeezing their sorrow out into their instruments. I could empathize with them. I sat down at the bar and the bartender came over to me. "What can I get you?" he asked. He was fortyish and had salt-and-pepper hair with a beard to match. He walked with a cane.

"What can you give me to counteract the way I feel?"

"That depends on how you feel. How do you feel?" he asked.

I told him. "You know this song the band's playing?" He nodded. "I feel like I could have written it when I was in a better mood." He sucked air in through his teeth and furrowed his brow.

"I know just what you need," he answered, turning back to the mirror behind him. His arms danced around the bottles, with a flurry of liquor splashing into an ice-filled tumbler. He presented it to me. I reached for it, but he held up a finger and gave me a warning. "Nurse it slowly." I gave him a confused look. He continued: "Sorry -- only one per customer."

"That much alcohol, huh?"

"Yep."

"Thanks." I took a sip and started to feel better. I would definitely need to make this one glass last a while.

I spent a while just listening to the band and trying to forget the day. I had gotten about halfway through my drink when a woman came up to the bar and took the seat next to mine. "What's that you're drinking?" she asked me. I had to be honest.

"I don't know, but I recommend one if you're feeling down and out."

"Ohh," she commiserated, "what happened?"

"More in one day than I could have handled in a week." I took another swig. She called the same bartender over and ordered one herself. He didn't warn her like he had warned me. She took a sip and continued to talk to me.

"I've had days like that myself. I try to see a positive side, and then I start to feel better. If that doesn't work, I break into a museum." We laughed. I could stand to have a chat with someone who's got this kind of sense of humor. She smiled and held out her hand. "People call me Amanda."

I reciprocated. "My name is Elliot Ness, and you're under arrest." We laughed again. "No, seriously. People call me Xenotrope."

"Well that's odd. Why do they call you that?"

"I think it's because I told them my name was Xenotrope." I got her to laugh at that, too. She began to ask me about the kind of day I had had, so I told her in 24-karat detail: "...and so now I have a project due that's bigger than a breadbox and sitting out in my car putting a dent in my upholstery."

"Whoa! You're not going to drive home after having one of these, are you?!?" I quickly put her fears to rest.

"No. I don't think I can. My car died on the way home. That's actually why I'm here." Amanda snorted.

"I guess you have had a bad day."

"Yeah." By now, I had told her almost everything about me but my bloodtype. It was time to turn the tables. "Tell me what you're doing here, Amanda."

"My story isn't nearly as interesting -- or as depressing -- as yours. I was supposed to meet...a friend...here, but he never showed up. I think he was held up by Interpol." I chuckled again. This woman knew just what to say to make me laugh. "I'm not joking." I started howling with laughter at that one. Soon enough, I regained my composure.

"Why would Interpol detain your friend?" I asked her.

"He probably didn't hide the stolen Matisse well enough, I guess."

We continued with this dialogue for quite a while. I learned about her: her job as a security systems analyst and her affinity for ecclesiastical art, for example. She was a very intriguing person, and talking to her made me forget all about my day. When we had each finished our drinks, we got a table in the back and ate dinner together. After dinner, and after the band had packed up and left, we still lingered. At about 2 in the morning, Joe's closed, and we were forced to leave. Amanda gladly wrote her phone number down on a Joe's matchbook and gave it to me. We looked around for a pay phone to call Triple-A and have them tow my car before I flagged a taxi. I found one a half-block away and rummaged around in my pocket for a quarter. There were two.

I first called Triple-A and gave them the details. They would be there in half an hour. I hung up, and Amanda began to say good-bye. I stopped her. "Wait a sec, Amanda. I have one more call to make." I pulled the matchbook out of my other pocket and punched her number into the phone. It rang a few times. "Hmmm. You must not be home," I told her. She laughed a suave, confounded laugh. Her machine picked up, and after a simple but also slightly seductive message, the beep sounded and I spoke. "Hi, Amanda? This is Xenotrope. I'm not surprised to see that you're not home now, seeing how as you're standing right next to me. I had a nice time tonight, and I'd like to see again Friday, after I finish the Giant Project I told you about." I gave the machine my number and then hung up. She gave me a look. "Hey, I just wanted you to be sure I'd call you. And if your answering machine were to be stolen at any time between now and the time you get home, you'll at least know what I wanted to say to you."

"Thanks, Xeno. That's really sweet." She gave me a warm smile. "I have a feeling that I'll be RSVPing to that message soon. If I don't get home though, my machine just might get stolen." With that, she said goodnight and vanished down the street.

Smiling myself, I began the walk back to my car.

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