“How many men does it take to open a beer? None, because it should be open by the time she brings it to you.”
* Freeze Frame * * Record Scratch * Yup, that’s me. Behind the bar. You’re probably wondering how I ended up in this situation. So am I.
I’ve got to get out of here. That’s what I’ve told myself, a hundred times today. In the last five minutes, I’ve said it six times. I’m going to drop out of Grad School and get a job. I’m going to. I have got to get out of here.
It all started with the man who asked me if I’d thrown away his number, which, of course, I had. And, of course, I said as much. For a moment, I though of lying. Of being discrete and polite no grandma, I love your meatloaf. Your ass absolutely does NOT look big in that dress. But I didn’t. Probably because he’s nearing his 60s (if he isn’t already there).
Then he says we should grab a drink. I’m starting to think he has a hearing problem, you know, because he’s twice my age. And then some.
Meanwhile, there’s the guy at the bar in the acid washed jeans who does lines of coke in the men’s bathroom from time to time. Classic. He’s sitting here rubbing at his nose and arguing over the price of his Screwdriver as if I have control over things like that. Halfway through his closing statement, and because his first joke fell flat, he leans over to the guy next to him. “Wanna hear something funny? You know how to date a girl? Date her just long enough until she thinks it’s serious. Then buy her a coat and take her hunting.”
You know what? I think the price is wrong. I definitely should have charged you more.
Back to Ancient Andy over on table 105, who says I’m making a serious mistake by not taking him up on his offer for a drink. But I’m not into changing diapers. It’s why I don’t have kids. “I’m good,” I say. “I’ve got a fully stocked cabinet at home.”
“So…we’re going to your house?”
Did I mention I’ve got to get out of here? I did? Sorry, my bad. Forgive the redundancy.
“I didn’t order a double,” Cocaine Carry says. “I just ordered a Screwdriver.”
“You’ve been drinking Double Grey Goose Screwdrivers for a year and a half.”
“But I didn’t want one today.”
I’m afraid that if I don’t just give in now, he’s going to subject me to another terrible joke. So, for the sake of everyone at the bar, I take the drink off his check. Print out the new one. Place it right beneath his dripping nose. “Here, I took it off for you.”
He leans in close, across the bar. “You should smile more.”
I lean back. Place my elbows on the bartop. Give him a wry little smile. “Why? You still haven’t said anything funny.” And then I laugh, because that shit was funny as hell.