Happy Hour(s)

happy

I’d like to say I love to visit the place but I would be stretching the truth. I visit it because it is so close to my apartment. It’s mainly for that reason that I like to pull in there and enjoy a few. Sometimes the bartenders misjudge my mood. It’s not their fault that they can’t dissociate me from what I’m feeling. If I’m happy and friendly, it’s Jameson. If not, it’s Johnnie Walker Black on rocks.  They always assume Jameson when they see me and most of the time they’re right. However, there are other times when it is Black and I change the order.

I’m not being dramatic, here; it’s just the way it is. My Black days are just what you’d expect: the table against the wall, no conversation and no menu orders. The Jameson days I’m at the bar critiquing news coverage, elaborating on sports or helping out with cross world puzzles.

Which leads me to…

Mike has trembling hands. I never asked him why his hands shake. He does crossword puzzles and is a sports fanatic and is such a good fellow, well, I’d guess I’d nominate him for president. At any rate, I like to help him answer those up/down questions when I can.

Jerry is a lawyer, beard, long hair and seems to relish the dullness of the place. He’s not fussy or pretentious, but he’s vocal. He drinks IPA’s and solely focuses on sports. I think it’s an escape for him.

Then there’s Roger; now don’t go getting used to saying, “Roger”. He doesn’t like it. He’s a Brit but he lived more than thirty years in France. So he expects you to pronounce Roger with a very soft g; something Americans find trouble doing. He expects this even though he’s lived in America for twenty years!

He told me once, back in December, during the holidays he corrected a lady at the grocery store for wishing him a happy Thanks Giving. In short, he told her that he didn’t celebrate Thanks Giving and that not every one in this country does. Well, here I took exception. I imagined a simple server just being polite and here’s ol’ Roger setting a rube straight. I said, “Roger, it was easier for you to simply accept the kind gesture than to convince her she’d done something wrong. You live in America now. You are in her country, after all. Contrary to political correctness dogma, there are some expectations for all Americans. When in Rome,” I told him.

Roger’s an older gentleman, at least in his 70s,  so I don’t know if he liked my input. Too bad, he brought it up. Then, we don’t need to be too hard on Roger. He’s rich and has many surrogate children he’s sponsored and helped. He’s a good man.

George is a bartender/server there and he grew up in Ecuador and so is Max who speaks Portuguese as well as English, though I’m sure hew grew up here in  the USA. They both are fond of me and like me and I like them, too.

Then there is a girl who is very cute, too skinny, but cute. I never remember her name. She’s from the Ukraine and has a very long pony tail. I’m talking below-the-waste-long. She likes Vladimir Putin, too. She’s a darling. She has that east European slavic look; wide cheek bones, proportionately set almond colored eyes, perfectly placed above a cute nose and sexy lips.

Well just last week Max was late. Turns out he’d overslept. How you over sleep past 5 pm is a question I never bothered to ask him. At any rate, she was mad. I’d never seen this side of her, though I should I have known she was capable because women, no matter where they are from, possess naturally that special feminine prerogative. When it’s revealed, it’s a helluva thing. Well, she broke character and revealed it.

Anyhow, she’s going on and on about Max. He’s not answering his phone, he’s late too often, etc. So there we sit, lined across the bar, and she informs us that she has a place to be in an hour. Max being late put her in a very tight crutch. She’d have to get home and change and fix-up and do–as women will attest–all the things needed for her to beautiful.

Here’s the point I want to make out of all of this; and that is: Men-folk can be funny. First of all, we don’t care. Max could have been another hour late as far as we are concerned. However, when she remarked there might not be enough time for her to look pretty, every man in the joint fought over the chance to correct her. It’s an involuntary reaction for men.

It went like this.

“I have to go home and get ready. We have reservations. I can’t go looking like this. I need enough time to at least look pretty, it’s hard enough as it is.”

Well, that was it. No man, and certainly no group of men, would ever let that pass. Our response was.

“Well, that’ll take about 5 minutes, as pretty as you are.”

“You can go like you are if pretty is what you are after” (that was my line, thank you).

“Well, lucky for you it won’t take you no time at all.”

I don’t know. Men as a race are simple; peculiar, but simple.

Here’s me smoking a cigar while wearing a sweater vest. (No one made me do either).

cigar

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3 thoughts on “Happy Hour(s)

  1. I love your … recreational group! Roger is – of course – my favorite. 😀
    As to the girl, typical female behavior. You all did well and your line was perfect. That’s exactly what she wanted to hear.
    PS: did you realize that you didn’t cut out your face from the picture?

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