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| Mornings Are Slow at the Bar |
I was down at the Thumb Tip Inn having a cold, wet one. I was alone and but for the bartender, had the room to myself. That makes sense at 10:30 in the morning. It didn't make sense that I would be at the Tip that early but things had stopped making sense 18 hours earlier.
"Another one?" Yvonne asked as she set out the menus and condiment racks.
I nodded. I was afraid to speak aloud. My throat had a lump in it about the size of my half-blind uncle's silk fountain load. It had been an emotional day and a half since I learned an important lesson: you can't trust anyone. In fact, don't even trust me when I tell you not to trust anyone.
Yvonne opened the fresh bottle of "Thick Bloody Mary Mix" or as it is commonly called, Ketchup. She diluted the bright red liquid with equal parts of tomato juice, lime juice, and Hi Karate Rum. I removed my slurpy straw from the drink I had been nursing and plunged it into the cold, soft refuge only a gelatinous alcoholic beverage could provide at that point.
"You look like a bee, going from flower to flower," Yvonne said as she washed her hands and tossed away my empty glass.
"How's that?" I asked.
"You look like a bee. I mean you didn't even pull the straw out of your mouth, just went from finishing the one glass and moved it to the new one. Just like a bee, that's all."
I nodded. I had not the slightest clue why she was saying what she was saying. I could have blamed it on my lack of sleep, or the rum that tasted suspiciously like an aftershave that my mother used to wear – or at least smell like when she'd come home after a late night at the office when pop was out of town. …
Continue reading Hardy Tales from the Thumb Tip Inn
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