During the summer of 1996, while I was doing a photography job on the road, I found myself in the small town of San Manuel, AZ. I was having a particularly bad day, and the boss told me on the phone that evening to take $20 out of the petty cash and have myself a nice breakfast in the morning. Having already been to the only breakfast restaurant in town, I knew I could probably order everything on the menu and not spend $20. I decided I would go find a bar and have a drink or two after work.

Since I wanted to lessen my chances of running into anyone I had taken pictures of that day, I decided to drive a few miles to the next town, Oracle. Seemed fitting. There was only one main street in Oracle, which I drove from end to end, deciding which of the several drinking establishments I was most drawn to.

Choosing one, I walked in and drew quite a bit of attention. I suppose people in these parts don't see too many unfamiliar faces. It was pretty far off the beaten path. Being a young woman, in my late 20s at the time, my street knowledge from back East told me I'd better come off like I could take care of myself. I ordered a whiskey shot with a beer back and went over to watch the pool tables. I ended up playing eight ball with an older man whose name I don't remember, but it turned out he had also lived in Chicago for a time. He said he was a window washer there, and I commented that one of my close friends in Chicago was also a window washer. From there we went on to talk about what it was like to hang off the side of a skyscraper on a little platform with the winds howling in off Lake Michigan.

When the bar closed, he and his friends invited me back to their place to continue the evening. I felt safe enough with them, and I usually have a pretty good intuition for such things, so I decided to go along. We drank more beer, and talked and talked. The man got his pet snake out to play with, and I took a turn holding it without hesitation.

An old Mexican man, or was he Indian, told a story I tried really hard to remember (I was pretty drunk by then), but only managed to come away with, "if you ever have to kill a snake, bury the body and hang the head." Seems like it could be useful knowledge at some point. From snakes, the talk turns to tattoos since I have a two-headed snake inked on my arm. Any time talk turns to tattoos, clothes start flying, and everyone has to show theirs off.

While we're all showing off body art, and talking tattoo shops, I bring up that, as a matter of fact, my biker friend who was also the window washer was the same person who did my tattoo. I say, "His name is Dean Spooner." The guy nearly drops his drink and blurts out, "You know Spooner? I was his boss!"

I knew then that I had picked the right place to go that night.