Tulsa wasn’t ever a place I’d thought I’d visit, but when the opportunity presented itself, I didn’t hesitate for a second. My mom got scared when I went to places like this, but she also knew I’d always try places like this. Myself, I was excited. I believed I’d made myself so versatile, I could go anywhere. All I needed was a reason. Didn’t need to be good or bad. I just wanted to see something I’d never seen before.

I was driving cross-country, and there was an old friend I could stop and see on the way. That was the opportunity. I was driving cross country because I was getting back with my ex.

I knew it could be a giant mistake. I didn’t care. She gave me purpose, even though I didn’t fully understand that yet. Plus, she was the most beautiful woman I’d ever known.

I’d never go through this part of the country otherwise. Nate was a middle school friend. That’s how far we went back. One of the two white kids I could remember from the school we went to. Back then, he’d already been tough. He’d had to be. So that’s how I met him. Trailer trash.

After all those years, he’d popped up on my Facebook. Tulsa was where he’d emerged. A mystery as to what lay between.

As the days came closer to my visit, I could sense him becoming more nervous over the phone, more nervous through text. I was pushing the issue now, to meet. I didn’t mind pushing.

It was a mystery. I was going to figure it out.

The town didn’t look bad as I drove in. I drove past country things: haybales, memorabilia shops, a Cracker Barrel. I drove over a bridge. The sun felt nostalgic, old timey. I went up a hill, just for kicks.

But I could see the rough edges. I could recognize them by that point in my life.

It was a nice day. I booked a hotel over my phone but when I arrived, I became suspicious. I needed something quaint and affordable but that doesn’t always look like what you want it to be. I had all my belongings in my SUV. The move.

I could smell tweakers from a mile away.

I was keenly aware of those who preyed on the loaded travelers. Case the mark during the day, then in the middle of the night, raid the whole car. Just a carpet of glass left on the asphalt to discover come morning.

I got the keys to the room. Once inside, I pulled the curtains closed, checked the sheets and the bathroom, got back to the curtains and spied out one end of the window, clocking the coyotes.

Nate said he was cooking dinner. I knew he’d married his parole officer. She had three kids. All girls. He worked in construction. He was some kind of pit boss. It didn’t sound like he liked Mexicans when he referenced them, but that’s all that was available apparently. In Tulsa. Here he was, a felon, but some ideas die hard, I guess.

The sun was beginning to set and make everything look like rust. I stopped on my way to his place to get some toys for the kids. I don’t like to show up empty-handed.

The only thing I passed was a Dollar Tree. I picked up six bags of candy. Mom would hate me, but the kids would cheer, I was confident. A trick I learned from my Oma.

In the front of the line, there was a woman hashing through coupons. After the coupons, counting coins on the counter. Small Asian woman, short hair cut, strands of grey, dusty pink puffer jacket, maybe a little younger than my mom. Just out here, in Tulsa, trying to make it on a late Tuesday afternoon.

How’d you get out here? Whose mother or sister or daughter were you? Was life just going to be like this? What the fuck.

I drove into Nate’s neighborhood, noticing all the neat little yards and absolutely no one out in them or the streets or sidewalks or anything. I pulled into a cul-de-sac, nice little one-story houses with clean driveways, a big truck in almost every one of them, and banners hanging. America or a school or an American football team. Nate met me outside his house, and you know what? He still looked like Nate.

Still looked strong. He was wearing jeans, not skinny, not baggy, and a 311 shirt.

I stepped out my car, smiling big. I was wearing my jean jacket, a baseball cap. We hugged. I handed him the plastic bag full of candy.

“For the kids,” I said.

“Bree won’t like it,” Nate said. But he was grinning. Nate was still in there.

We stepped inside his house. It was nice. Like what you expect. Carpet. Lots of wood. Picture frames on the walls. The girls said hello to me and immediately lost interest. The wife also briefly said hello, then turned back to her computer. Something was off, but I just followed Nate for the house tour.

Decent backyard. Tidy kitchen. Bunch of cabinets. Cereal on top of the fridge.

Nate had a nice little life here. So why did I feel like I’d walked into one of those cages where the fences were electric?

“We already ate,” he told me. “I made tacos.”

I thought that was weird. We were supposed to have dinner together.

“Want some?”

“Uh, yeah.”

He took a big tortilla and tossed some beef onto it and some frozen shredded cheese and put it in the microwave.

“You remember I used to be a decent chef,” he told me. He wasn’t being sarcastic, but I didn’t remember him being a chef. True, he’d been a line cook at seafood restaurant in a strip mall in our small town, but I’d never gone.

I just nodded. The microwave beeped and he took the plate out. At least he had a bottle of Tapatio.

“Let me know if you want more,” he said.

I rolled the oversized taco into a makeshift burrito and blew on it, eating at the kitchen table with him, his family in the other room.

It got night. Nate didn’t drink anymore. He told me out front in the driveway the reason he’d gone to jail was for four DUI’s. You do years for that many.

“I was never any good at it,” he told me. “I had to keep finding that out.”

I noticed skittish tendencies of his. I noticed skittish tendencies of his wife. She never spoke to me. She wanted to look but she’d catch herself, do something else. Look back at the computer screen. The kids were in their own little TV world. They did love the candy. Mom did not, but she wasn’t mad at me.

We watched a movie with Will Smith in it. He had it on DVD. It was fine. I drank a Dr. Pepper. No one talked during the movie. When it was over, the kids were promptly sent to bed.

While Mom arranged that, Nate and I went out onto the driveway again. Music was playing next door. His neighbors were out on their yards in lawn chairs, drinking beer.

“These Mexicans. They look at my wife,” he said with a low level of venom.

“For real? Is it a problem?”

“No,” he said.

“Has there been any problems?”

“No. I just… get protective. I get protective of her.”

“Something happen?”

“I told you where I met her.”

“Sure.”

“I think… being inside just makes you very possessive of what you got.”

“I can understand that. But you trust her, right?”

“Yeah,” he said a little softly.

I allowed for a moment of silence. To just cool down.

“You were in there a while, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“Look at you now though,” I said. “You got a house.”

“Cause of her.”

“So what? Y’all are a unit now. It’s yours. And those are your daughters. They’re lovely.”

“They are. Thank you, man.” He drank his Dr. Pepper. “We have a good thing, I think. And the job is stable. I just gotta whip these guys into shape sometimes. They don’t always want to work. I don’t want to be that guy.”

“Nate.”

“What?”

“You talk to anybody?”

“What do you mean?”

“Like, a professional. Just, about stuff. How you feel and stuff like that.”

“Fuck that,” he said, sneering.

We stood quiet a beat, looking out into the now dark sky, the black trees, the lights of the street.

“I do,” I said. “I was talking to someone. I needed to. Especially if I was going to make this move, get back with my lady. I needed to talk to someone. Not a friend, not family. Someone I could just say it to. And they could listen. And not to tell me I’m not a bad person. Not tell me I’m a good person. Just listen. And tell me things that could maybe help. Or maybe just say I hear you. It’s not a bad thing, Nate. You know, I think we need it, honestly. I think it’s pretty helpful. I think being in our own heads all the time is a little dangerous. It’s not good to be there all the time. Alone. And I like being alone. But you’re not supposed to be there all the time. You know? Plus… you just can’t always tell people you love what you feel, what you think, all the time. You might not know how to say it just then. Am I making any sense?”

We were quiet for a long time. Then Nate said, “I was talking to someone. My last months, inside. I just didn’t want to say it. I thought it’d make me sound crazy.”

The neighbors had gone back inside their house. It alleviated the situation. I put my hand on his shoulder.

“You don’t sound crazy, hoss.”

Looking at him, I could see in his eyes, some of that old mirth, the wealthy glitter of hopefulness from our youth. It just blinked out so fast I didn’t have time to latch on. But I knew who I was too. We went back inside the house. His wife and the girls had gone into their rooms. It wasn’t even nine o’clock. I knew I ought to leave.

“Hey, man. It was damn good to see you.”

“Remember when I was your math tutor?” he asked me.

I didn’t and said so.

“Your mom asked me to help you.”

We hugged. For a long time. He didn’t look me in the eye when we parted.

“Call me. Seriously. If you just need to… talk,” I told him, knowing I’d never see him again.

“Drive safe,” he told me.

I started driving back to my motel. Last minute, I decided to stop by a pub I’d looked up. It had the name “dog” in it, so I figured it ought to do the trick.

I parked in the lot. It was packed. When I got in there, I encountered the most elderly white people I’d ever seen in my life. Some were dancing. Most were sitting. Talking. It was lively. All of them looked at me like I was an alien. I went to the bar anyway. The bartender, middle-aged with red hair and white roots showing, asked me without enthusiasm what I’d like.

“Shot of tequila, chilled, and a Modelo.”

I didn’t want to stay there, but I wasn’t going to run out. I was resolute. I took the shot, drank half the beer, and then I left. No fuss.

The parking lot of the motel was quiet. I slept three hours. Then I left Tulsa and never went back. But I still thought about Nate. Often.

For a long time, I used to tell people: when you think of someone, just hit them up.

Contact them.

It’ll mean a lot. It’s nice.

But these days, I’ve found I’m more inclined to let sleeping dogs lie.