"That place is good," he says. "I know the owner, like, really well. I'm going to go broke eating there!" He laughs a little too hard. "Not really, you know."
"Right," I laugh, a little harder. What brings him up from Austin?
"Software," he says, vaguely. "I sell software."
"Oh, computers are fun!" I offer. What brings me to town? "I'm going to be a hairdresser. Hair school." He grins, wrapping his arm around my waist.
"You know what would be a sexy date? You give me a haircut, and we'll share a bottle of wine."
"Wouldn't that be a dangerous date?" I ask. I don't mention the fact that his receding hairline didn't leave much cutting to be done.
Before I can determine if we're going back to his place or mine—$30k-ers almost always insist on the girl's place—King Douche appears right over Justin's shoulder as if he's about to interrupt our conversation.
"Well, it was nice to meet you. I'm going to have a cigarette!" I squeal and head for the patio.
Results: High likelihood of Homo sapiens douchebagus, considering his apparent friendly relationship with Douche Vader, vague "software" reference and name-drop of the Kenichi owner.
I flee potential outing by the Czar of Assholery by chain-smoking Camels in Mantus' underground porch. My feet are aching, and I've got a case of the caffeine jitters courtesy of four Diet Cokes. A drunk guy named Juan tries to woo me after I ask him for a light.
"I saw you over by the porn earlier," he says. A veritable Don Juan, indeed! We talk for a few minutes, and he tells me he's a medical student. "Probably surgery. Something like that." He's too far gone to be milked for $30,000 millionaire info, though he's a likely candidate.
"What's your name again?" he asks, flipping open his phone to take down my number. Seconds after I take leave of him, a guy in a loud, purplish button-down shirt asks me for a cigarette. This one "used to be a jewelry designer." Today, he sells furniture. He's got the day off tomorrow, he mentions. Nothing to do tomorrow morning. Nowhere to be. Hint, hint, hint. I stop caring if he's a $30,000 millionaire or just a garden-variety douchebag. I stomp out my smoke in mid-cig and make for the valet stand. It's almost 2 a.m.
While I'm waiting for the valet to bring my car, I reflect on all the field interviews conducted over the past several weeks. Taken together, these guys equal just about one stereotypical $30,000 millionaire, but I never managed to turn up the total package in one guy. Dismayed, I shift back and forth on my heels and try to calm my aching head—until fate gives me one last wink.
The couple in front of me—a guy in a white button-down and loafers, girl in a sexy top and jeans—walk toward a black sedan as the valet pulls up. It is a BMW. The valet climbs out of the driver's seat, and the guy gives her a nod and a set of finger-guns.
As they speed away, I catch the silver lettering on the back of the car: 328i. Bigfoot disappears into the brush.