So in the true spirit of “transparency” (everyone’s favorite word these days), and before he picks up a bucket of water and douses the prolonged kissers in the middle of the bar, your friendly bartender must first come clean as to his own misdoings in Bar-land over the years. I mean just so he doesn’t come off too holier than thou here. For when your friendly bartender was younger (a tad before last Tuesday, let’s say, when he wasn’t sitting in front of his fireplace partaking of tea and scones, wrapped in an afghan reading a book of psalms), his appetite for nightly debauch was not only voracious, it was relentless. And as he would careen through the New York bar scene roughly four or five nights a week, in search of that certain female who shared his appetite, short of banging on Tiffany’s window at 3 o’clock in the morning in an attempt to pick out a silver pattern to close the deal, nothing was omitted from his arsenal to score in the ninth.
So it should come as little surprise as he pursued those sordid adventures, with his brains in his shorts and his conscience awash in Jack Daniels, that along the way he engaged in public kissy-face while sitting on a bar stool. Tut-tut, indeed! However… (and this is a huge “however”, dear reader, and one he clearly stresses)… after kissy-face made it to kiss, and kiss progressed to kiss, and kiss rolled into the two tongued frigging tango, he was fast about the business of replacing that public stool for a private room. In other words, “To hell with this joint… my place or yours!” Yes he was far from continuing his mating ritual draped across the mahogany, carrying on like Lothario, giving a shit not who observed his actions. Which brings your friendly bartender to the aforementioned couple just asking for that cold bucket of water.
First of all, she was gorgeous… large green eyes behind rectangular black framed glasses (naughty MILF specs)… a built-for-fun body (wonderfully round in all the right places) poured into a white sweater and slacks. And just as a bonus, as if these weren’t enough to simmer the hemoglobin… lips the size of pillows for your kissing enjoyment!
He, on the other hand, this lucky son-of-a-bitch, can only be described as… what-the-hell-was-he-thinking?… in all the right places. This guy was ludicrously packed into a skin tight cowboy shirt, unbuttoned, it appeared, all the way down to his ankles. He sported designer jeans, pressed, secured by a massive belt buckle which was of a size to bring down a steer if applied to its forehead. His coif spoke Jerry Seinfeld, circa Season Two, and he smelled as though he’d just drunk a pint of Old Spice. Just looking at the two of them, he in all his western glory and she in all her just plain glorious glory, your friendly bartender couldn’t help thinking, What the hell is she doing with he??? (Did I mention I was jealous?)
“What’ll it be, guys?” your friendly bartender asked, toward eyes and ears oblivious to his presence. For after Green Eyes had set her purse on the bar she turned around with her back to it while Tex, pinning her against said bar, launched her into a four-and-a-half minute kiss. (Let me repeat that… a four-and-a-half minute kiss!) Undaunted however, and ever the professional (a-hem) in all situations, your friendly bartender stayed patient throughout and when he saw them come up for air, he asked his question again but this time louder. They then forced a cutesy chuckle, feigned cutesy embarrassment at which point Tex, finally taking charge of the moment repeated my question to his lady in waiting who unbelievably ignored that question and roared again into one of those train station kisses. You know… one of those “I-may-never-see-you-again”, clutching beyond all reason, desperate fucking train station kisses.
Jesus! I mean had he just this day washed up on shore having been thought to be lost at sea for the past ten years? Had she just come into his life again after an unrequited crush dating back to high school? Were they having an affair, which is usually the case with displays like this, and every single moment must not be wasted? Who knows? Certainly not YFB, but having several other customers at the time, thirsty and not amid foreplay, he walked away from the nonsense to go and tend to them.
A bit later, and just to see how long it would take, YFB decided to ignore them, just to piss them off, but son-of-a-bitch it only pissed him off. For this couple was having far too much fun to worry about some silly liquid YFB was selling. But then finally, after an absurd amount of time had passed and just as your friendly bartender was about to go over and tell Tex to either place an order or give up the valuable real estate, as if Tex had sensed it, he threw up the two-fingered peace sign indicating two whatever-the-hell drinks he was pronouncing too softly. “Pardon me?” YFB asked, re-entering the sauna, “I’m sorry, but I don’t read lips.” “Two Belvedere martinis straight up,” Tex repeated. “Twist or an olive?” YFB asked. “You decide,” Tex replied, which marked the first time in human history that a grown martini drinker had ever said that.
Now there are two unmistakable sounds, dear reader, (as any bartender will tell you), that grab his attention faster than anything else. One is the sound of chairs sliding across the floor (usually the preface to a brawl) and the other is the sound of a knocked over drink on the bar. Well, thanks to Tex and Green Eyes, soon after he’d served them, your friendly bartender heard both of those sounds… at exactly the same time… as the lady’s chair slid out from under her (not from a brawl but a maul) putting her ass on the floor and sending her perfect martini streaming down the bar. These two ridiculous humps (and I mean the word literally) had clearly taken “glad to see you” way too fucking far, and now your friendly bartender was most unfriendly.
“Two things,” YFB said, leaning in with a low but deliberate tone, “I need twenty dollars for the two drinks and you two need to get a god damn room. We’re done here!” Then he mopped up the Belvedere river as he walked down the bar. Tex paid, they took turns sipping on the un-spilled “marty ” then thankfully without a fuss they up and left. But what came across as strange, and this your friendly bartender still doesn’t get, was the fact that Tex, as he approached the exit and as if we’d all just had this most delightful time, looked back and gave me a wink, flashed his barbecue smile, then shot out one of those one-fingered cool-daddy salutes. Huh??? I guess some people just don’t embarrass well.
Moral of the story? Apparently some people just don’t have any morals.
Over and out from Bar-land… see ya’ next week-end!