“Okay. I’ll do it tomorrow as soon as I get back to Atlanta.”

“Why don’t you do it from Chicago?” she asked me.

“Because I’m not gonna mess around and miss my plane while looking around for a Western Union office in the morning, that’s why.”

“I’m sure the hotel people can tell you. You can have a taxi take you to Western Union first, and then go right to the airport.”

The girl was asking for ice water in hell.

“Look, Juanita, I’m gonna get it to you when I get it to you. I’m not gonna be running around here looking for a Western Union in the morning. I’m gonna get my rest, and I’m gonna go straight to the airport to catch my plane.”

My sister finally settled down and said, “Thank you. I appreciate it.”

It didn’t sound like it, but it was a done deal. I would wire her money as soon as I got back to Atlanta.

I hung up the phone with my sister and thought about calling my mother. They both kept late hours so I wasn’t concerned about the time. But before I could make up my mind to call her, my cell phone went off again.

I looked down and read Rachel’s 614 area code one more time.

I frowned and asked myself out loud, “What the hell is wrong with this girl?”

I decided to answer it just to tell her ass off, but as soon as she spoke on the line, she stated, “You’re a coward.”

“What?”

“You heard me. You gon’ go right ahead and run away like a bitch,” she said. “I knew I read you right the first time.”

“You don’t really know me like that,” I responded to her.

“Yes I do. You’re a bitch,” she snapped. “And I bet you’re a bitch with all the women.”

She sounded like she was drunker than earlier. I could hear her friends laughing in the background.

She said, “You probably don’t even like girls. Damn faggot.”

It was insane to argue with that woman, so I planned not to. Answering her call was a mistake.

“All right, well, have a nice life,” I told her. I was ready to hang up.

She said, “Well, what is wrong with you?”

“What is wrong with me? You need to be asking yourself that question,” I told her. “I’m not the one calling you disrespectful shit over the phone.”

Suddenly she quieted down and whispered to me, “Look, that was just to get your damn attention. I know you’re not a damn faggot.”

I didn’t even like her using that word. I was surely a heterosexual, but I was never into bashing guys and girls who were not. To each his own and her own.

I said, “You’re still being disrespectful.”

“How so?”

“Nobody wants to be called a faggot. That’s rude.”

“Well, what do you call them? Friends?”

“No, I call them gay,” I answered. “But look, it’s a little late right now, and I was mainly answering your call to say that I was in for the night.”