This is the last episode in this series. I will continue to write about Joey and his Mom and the life adventures they share in the future, as time permits. Each of those pieces will stand separately with this story as the background. Thanks so much for reading! All characters in this story are over 18.
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I sat on the couch in our family room sipping a small shot of bourbon over crushed ice, paying half-attention to a 'Friends' re-run on the T.V. while Mom was getting ready for our celebratory dinner at the Buckhorn Exchange. After our shower I had dressed quickly in a pair of khakis, a pinstriped, button-down shirt, and Sperry loafers. Mom was taking over an hour to get ready. At that moment I was glad that I was a man.
I had a lot on my mind, feeling very unsettled from suddenly learning that I was wealthy earlier in the day. At the same time, my mind was swimming with the possibilities in front of me. I was ecstatically happy on one hand, but my Spidey-sense was telling me that there were great pitfalls to suddenly coming into money, and I needed to use all my super-powers to move forward in a sensible way. I thought to myself that Mom could help me with that. She was accustomed to her wealth and lived a normal life. I wanted that.
The holiday season hadn't quite started and I had been fortunate to get a 6:30 reservation for dinner at the Buckhorn on short notice. There was a light-rail station right across the street from the restaurant, so we decided we'd park at the structure near us and ride the light-rail in. Denver has such a great public transportation system.
Exactly at the time I had asked her to be ready, 5:45 pm, Mom appeared. My jaw dropped when she walked into the room. She was wearing a tight, black cocktail dress that had some kind of luminescent thread sewn in that sparkled in the light. It was sleeveless, but rode high up to her neck, exposing her bare arms, and profiling the luscious shape of her ample breasts. It clung tightly to her stomach and hips, and ended at mid-thigh. It was the kind of dress that begged to be taken off by a man. Her outfit was topped off by black pumps with 4" stiletto heels.
Her shoulder-length blonde hair was perfectly half-tousled, half-arranged. She had put on makeup, which she rarely did, and her blue eyes seemed to shine out of her face, while her painted red lips were full, sensuous, and inviting. Toned arms, legs super-defined in her 4" heels, Mom was a knock-out.
And as beautiful as I had come to realize that Mom was, I saw her in a completely different light yet again. She was a beautiful, classy, confident woman who could move easily in any circle. Again, I felt blessed.
"Wow!" I said, as I took in the full picture of my beautiful mother. "You look absolutely stunning!"
"I'm not wearing any underwear," she announced curtly as she transferred her wallet from her normal Coach purse to her tiny black clutch. Then she looked over to me and smiled sweetly. "I hope you'll take advantage of me tonight if I have too much to drink."
Completely devoid of a witty comeback to that, I gestured towards the front door. "We'd better be going," was about the only thing I could come up with.
I drove Mom's Mazda the three miles to the Light Rail Station and found a parking spot easily. We boarded the train before 6:00, which gave us plenty of time to make our reservation. Mom seemed nervous on the train, looking around frequently. I realized that she was searching for a dreaded familiar face; someone from the Golf Club or from her former life who might see her out with this younger man, dressed to kill.
"Relax," I whispered in her ear. "It's just dopers going downtown to score and nannies and housekeepers going home from the suburbs on this train." I put my arm around her. "Nobody's going to recognize you."
I felt her relax and lean into me. I held her, cuddling and reassuring her on the entire ride in. Every time we arrived at a stop, the doors would open, and she would tense up, afraid that a familiar face might board the train. Her hand wasn't near my crotch, teasing me, as it had been a couple of weeks ago on the train on the way home from the ball game. Evidently reality had fully intruded on our paradise.
Our stop finally arrived, and we jumped off the train. Sad-looking mothers with small, unkempt children waited to board as we disembarked. Again, I felt blessed to be living the life I was living.
We walked the 20 yards across the street to the front door of the Buckhorn. It was a dilapidated brick building, over 120 years old. We entered the narrow foyer where an older gentleman, thick in the waist and butt, sat over a table-top podium staring into a reservation book.
"Two for Joe," I said as I walked up.
"Wait is two hours," he replied in a thick accent. "You can go to bar."
"I made a reservation about three hours ago," I said, moving closer to his podium and trying to peer over the top at his book. "Two for Joe, or Joey, at 6:30."
"Six-thirty for Joey, let me see," he said as he studied the reservation book intently. "I see here. Is 6:15 now, go to bar, we call you." Was he incompetent or canny? I couldn't decipher which.
"And you'll call us up there?" I asked, worried that he just might be incompetent.
"We call you, Mr. Joey. No worry."
Mom and I walked up the creaky stairs to the bar. There was a 2-piece band playing at the far end of the room. They weren't very good.
Now in the middle of a bustling, modern downtown, the Buckhorn Exchange had started as a restaurant sometime in the 1890's in this building. It remains as one of the last vestiges of the Denver that existed when Cattlemen ruled the high desert and Denver was the center-point for Cattlemen, Sheep Herders, Prospectors, and Snake-Oil Salesmen. There are over 100 mounted wild animal heads on the walls, peering down on diners. It was one of Big Joey's favorite places in the world.
Mom ordered a cosmopolitan, up, and I noticed a bottle of Breckinridge Bourbon on the back bar. A small craft distillery had started up in the old mining town of Breckinridge, west of Denver. Now known for its ski mountain, I thought they made better bourbon than ski runs. I ordered a Breckinridge Manhattan, straight up, no cherry. The sour-faced woman bartender served our drinks and attempted a smile as she did.
People coming up the stairs and into the bar jostled by our backs as Mom and I sipped our drinks.
"So how are you feeling about finding out you're rich?" Mom shouted at me above the din of the duo and the bar-goers who were trying to talk over them.
"Okay, I guess," was my reply, although it didn't reflect any of the conflict I was feeling. "Kind of blown-away." I shrugged.
"You'll be fine," Mom shouted at me. "We'll work through it together!"
Mom downed her drink and I raised my index finger to the bartender. When she saw me, I pointed at Mom's empty glass and mouthed "One more."
The bartender delivered Mom's second drink just as the singer went into a horrible rendition of "Your Cheating Heart" by Hank Williams. I sipped my Breckinridge Manhattan and waited for our name to be called, not wanting to have to yell at Mom to communicate.
Another five minutes passed and the singer had started mangling a George Jones song when a cute young gal came up the stairs and called out, "Joey for 2." I motioned to her and stood.
