My dad’s stables wintered in Indiantown, Florida back in the 1950s, near the home of Payson Park Thoroughbred Training Center.

During the 1970s, after co-owner Michael Phipps died, the neglected facility fell into disarray. But in the 1980s Virginia Craft Payson brought it back to prominence. It’s a forty-mile drive from West Palm Beach, and 90 minutes from the racetracks in Tampa and Miami. This was the first time I’d been back in 20-plus years.

Cowboys and thoroughbred racetrack-types flocked to the area to break yearlings and leg-up horses for the northern spring race meets at Keeneland, Churchill Downs, Saratoga, and Belmont Park. Hardworking days, and drunken brawl nights. 

Neighboring Stuart, Florida, known as the “Sailfish Capital of the World,” had changed over the years, into a peaceful, pleasant little town of about 17,000. Not a place on our crowd’s preference list, we couldn’t get to West Palm Beach fast enough.

The hopping West Palm nightlife appeared a thing of the past. Mr. Gs, once the hottest dance club on the coast—where patrons lined the streets and waited hours—often, never to get in.

Shenanigan’s had become a scaled-down eastside pub. Kava bars, chill-out and relax places, had seemingly caught on. But they aren’t likely to ever take the place of boozers’ dancehalls, discos, and feisty-broad pickup joints.

Finally, we found an elbow-to-elbow, happy-hour bar on Clematis Street. First sip of my fourth drink, and this sweet young thing slipped through the crowded partiers and pushed her voluptuous breasts against me, dreamy lashes fluttered, and her playful tongue slathered saliva across luscious glistening lips, as she said, “Hello, pretty boy, my, my—” She stepped back and looked me up and down. “Oh, how this sex-starved tigress would like to ride you too hard, leave you wet and exhausted, and with more saddle sores than a cowboy on a two-week cattle drive.”

I took it she had noticed my Croup riding boots and, probably the twitch in my Wrangler jeans. Never at a loss for words, there I stood, unable to say boo.

What a beautifully tanned and shapely green-eyed girl, dimples framing her Pepsodent smile. She wobbled. Her French manicured nails, on long elegant fingers, locked onto a high-backed chair to steady herself. Visibly intoxicated, and/or stoned, gaze-evoked nystagmus, a rhythmic oscillation of her slightly glazed eyes ensued as she struggled to focus. She swayed, then flopped on the couch and passed out.

My friends gathered around, and Tim asked, “So, thought about what you’re gonna to do?”

“What do you mean . . .?” What could I do, I asked myself, besides look after her, and keep her safe until she’s sobered up.

“Well, I don’t know about you, but . . . that girl is gorgeous.”

“Tim, I can’ t believe you. So, you think I should take advantage of a helpless babe who wouldn’t even remember me afterwards?” It wasn’t funny, but I had to laugh. Disgusted by his remarks, I sort of understood what he meant. “She’s so blown away she doesn’t know what she’s saying, Tim, or she’s so nasty she does strangers every night. Either way, I wouldn’t touch her.”

“Well, then let me be your substitute driver.” Tim guffawed, clutching his aching stomach. Spraying spit as he tried to speak, “Maybe I’ll get lucky, and she’ll fall madly in love with me.”

“Tim, this girl might be diseased, lose consciousness in your bed and die, or maybe cause your root to rot off.”

“I’d take my chances for one night with this princess. We could get healed together.

“What if it isn’t curable?” I’m still struggling not to laugh—I mean, she really is that pretty—from head to toe. “What if she has AIDS?”

“Man, this girl would be the highlight of my life whatever happens.” All five of us broke out howling. Startled by the uproarious burst of laughter, she jerked up, aghast.

I eased over and sat beside her. She stared, then leaned away. And I said, “Are you okay.”

“Who are you?” She asked. Eyes darting around, looking for someone familiar. “How did I get here?”

“Don’t you know?” She truly did appear bewildered. 

“Well, if I knew, I wouldn’t have asked you.” She tried to pull herself up by the padded armrest but didn’t have the strength.

Watching her closely, I asked, “Do you remember what you said to me?”

She frowned. “I’ve never seen you before.”

“Well, you hadn’t before you came up and told me you’d like to sleep with me.” Then, almost in a frenzy, she grabbed at the armrest and tried to get away.

“Calm down. I won’t hurt you. From the way you’re acting, it’s hard to believe you’re the same girl who approached me with your vulgar proposition.”

“You’re nuts, man . . . get away from me before I scream.”

I backed off, holding both hands up in surrender. But not fast enough. She screamed at the top of her lungs, and by the second outburst, three off-duty detectives surrounded us, badges in hand.

“What’s the problem here?” The biggest cop leaned in, nearly nose-to-nose, and the other two stepped up behind me.

“There isn’t any problem, officer—” I tried to cool the situation.

But the snoop cut me off mid-sentence, and said,  “Okay, wise guy, guess she just screamed for the hell of it?” His soured face perfectly accented his piercing glare. “Young lady . . . hey, sit up here.” He squeezed her arm. “Why were you screaming?”

“This creep cuddled in beside me on the couch and claimed I propositioned him earlier.” She dabbed a tissue to stifle trickling tears. “I pulled away and told him I’d scream if he didn’t leave me alone.”

Looking repulsed, he pointed at me and said, “So, this character didn’t heed your warning?”

“Exactly!” Voice augmented another octave, she said, “He just sat there with that dumb look on his face.”

Troubled times coming. This convincing actress almost had me believing her lies—ready to confess my guilt—as the monster she described. 

“How could you . . . you’re lying, and you know it.” A couple faithful friends tried to speak up in my defense—but, threatened with jail—they quickly shut up.

Arms handcuffed behind my back, the sleuths marched me through the bar of tantalizing gawkers, and outside to an awaiting paddy wagon.

Shoved through the wagon’s back door, I bumped my head and bit my tongue. A goose-egg hematoma raised and throbbed, blood in my mouth tasted metallic.

Thrown in a cell like a criminal at the precinct, I used my one call to my lawyer. But an hour later—Amanda Warren bailed me out—all charges dropped.

I had known an Amanda from there as a teenager, but her surname wasn’t Warren, and she’d never have had such pull with authorities.

Released, I wasted no time heading straight back to the bar— searching for observers to corroborate my story—eyewitnesses of what truthfully happened.

It was crystal clear upon entering that my crowd hadn’t missed a beat, still whooping it up, without a care in the world.

I eased up to the bar. The batwing kitchen doors swung open and out walked Amanda. She hadn’t changed much in twenty-four years. Besides a few laugh lines, and scattered grays throughout her thick, dark auburn hair, she still commanded attention.

She grabbed up a bottle of Blanton’s without asking my pleasure and poured what surely measured a double double; then, motioned for me to follow her.

She had her own reserved corner booth. Facing each other, we climbed in the half-circle cushioned seats. Her on one edge, me on the other, and she wasted no time getting to the point.

“You didn’t see me, but I saw you come in earlier. Kind of caught me by surprise.”

“You should have said something.” I smiled, hoping she might too. But she didn’t.

“I said a bunch, just not to you. I figured keeping my thoughts and opinions to myself was best.”

“Okay, so I guess I’m supposed to realize you’re still holding a grudge after all these years?”

“No . . . no grudge, but life moves on, like it or not.” She looked sad and avoided eye contact. “Listen, I owe you an apology, which seems strange for me to say, considering how you treated me.”

“Listen, Amanda, I had to leave by 4:30 that morning, not allowing much chance for goodbye. I had every intention of contacting you soon after we shipped out, but things happened. I thought about you often, just couldn’t find the right time, or words. A year passed, then two. Embarrassed, I didn’t figure you’d still care if I called or not.”

“But you never bothered to call and find out, did you?” In a death stare, her eyes met mine, and I nearly melted.

“I promise . . . I wanted to call many times. Then, I found out we weren’t coming back the next winter—or the next. And then, I—” Amanda talked over me, leaving my aimed explanation dangling—exchanged with hopeless frustration.

“Anyway . . . doesn’t matter . . . that’s all in the past. I just want to apologize for what happened tonight. It’s all my fault.” Amanda, grim faced, arched upright.

“Why was it your fault?” I couldn’t have been more curious and anxious for answers. There was obviously something I didn’t know.

“The young lady who got you locked up is my daughter. Earlier, when you came in, I wrote down what I wanted her to say to you. She memorized and rehearsed it, while we planned and giggled. It seemed funny at the time to put you on the spot. And yes—it was meant to humiliate you in front of your friends—mean and vindictive as it sounds.

“But Ashley, a non-drinker, drank two Margarita’s, which caused an adverse reaction with her prescription meds. I had stepped over to make a bank deposit and missed all the action. You going to jail. And the paramedics rushing Ashley to the hospital emergency room.”

“I’m assuming this happened after I was arrested. So, is Ashley okay now?” Amanda kept nodding yes.

“Yes, she’ll be fine after a good night’s sleep. Thanks for asking.”

“So, this is your bar and restaurant?”

“It is. Mine and my husband’s . . . Ashley’s father.” She cleared her throat—avoiding eye contact.

“Ashley is lovely and looks a lot like you. Well, all but the slight clef in her chin and black hair. So, she takes that after her father, I’d presume?”

Amanda’s head tilted, eyes rolled toward the ceiling, white’s reddening, tears pooling. She clasped her hands over her face, shielding her private emotions, unable to contain drips from her chin or the tic ticking drops of transparency on the white-paper table covering. And she said, “No, unlike you, he doesn’t have either.”

Suddenly chilled, I felt smothered beneath an avalanche of icy regret. Lessons in life and love: A quick course on what I’d never known and missed out on.