on the house

[photo by michelstadt]

I think the bartender was trying to kill me...

I watched her fill the glass with ice, pour a generous amount of rum and then splash a garnish of coke with the nozzle. The color remained transparent--though slightly brownish--as the small glass quickly filled. I sat at the bar and learned how to stop Michael Vick--pressure up the middle, tight man coverage and keeping containment. All of which sounds simple enough, if you don't factor in how fucking fast that guy is.

The sound was off, of course, so I couldn't hear the finer details, but I got the gist of it. I don't understand how bars could have anything but sports shows on their televisions. It's the only thing you can make sense of without the volume. One time I was in a bar and they were showing an episode of The X-Files without the sound on. Good luck on figuring that one out.

Of course, you don't go to bars to watch TV, unless you're there by yourself, which was the case for me this evening. I'd watched a movie with a couple of friends, then decided to hit the bars in lieu of getting a ride and going home early--I still haven't learned yet.

I had the killer rum and coke at the local watering hole, then decided I might as well stay for a chaser. I ordered a pint of Guinness and pulled a five out of the pile of cash I had left on the bartop in front of me--the place was so damn empty tonight, I wonder if it was the fog. But the bartender waved me off. Shook her head. My money was no good there. I was happy at first, but then I wondered if it was because I was drinking alone. Was it a pity pint? Either way, it tasted just as good.