I’m standing at the bar. It’s a crowded Friday night so I’m wedged between a cowboy and a 30-something woman as I give the bartender my come-hither look.
We hang around here enough that the bartenders know us as much as you can know a guy who won’t talk to you or make eye contact unless there’s alcohol involved. Ultra Guy is working the counter. Jury is still out on whether he also is Fast Guy. Elusive, this fellow. He knows I want something dark, but isn’t sure which one. 1554, I tell him. He nods approvingly. The woman to my right has no idea what 1554 is. I shrug.
He comes back with a pint glass, poured just right, little bit of foam straight across the top of the glass. “That’ll be $17.50,” he says with a smile. “Well worth it,” I declare while handing him a 20.
The woman next to me stares at the drink. “$17.50? What’s in it?” she asks. “I don’t know,” I reply. “I’m not good with numbers.”
The bartender comes back with my 15 bucks in change, which the woman totally misses. I give him a buck. The woman gives me the come hither look. I decline to make eye contact.
I enjoy the beer. Definitely worth $17.50 …