Weekend.
I had a roast beef sandwich in my purse.
"There's an eight dollar cover tonight." He said it smugly, as if I would respond with shock and bemoaningly depart the bar or fork over money.
"Yeah, I'm on the list," I said, putting little quotation marks in the air around the word "list" for no real reason. As if the list were metaphysical, as if it were an almost-invisible flying ship making its ethereal way around the bar, with me on it.
"Oh." He wanted my eight dollars in his hands, in a stack with all the other 1's and 5's. He mumbled something about seeing my id, even though I've shown this exact same man my id probably twenty times in the past couple of months. I permitted him to see it once more, once again proving that I am nowhere close to being underaged, and he skittered away from me.
I was early but it was already crowded and I couldn't find a table so sat at the bar to eat my delicately wrapped Jimmy John's gourmet sandwich, feeling proud of myself for remembering to ask for sprouts. It's the kind of thing I usually wish I had remembered to do, but don't actually do. "Ask for sprouts," I say to myself as I step up to order, but it somehow just doesn't come out. Sometimes instead I say something about extra onions or mayo or something, which in fact I do not want.
I couldn't decide whether to order a drink. Maybe some wine, suggested Spencer, and it seemed not to be the worst idea. Pinot noir, I thought to myself. Order pinot noir, but definitely not pinot grigio, which I detest. And thinking about detesting pinot grigio made me order it, of course, by mistake, which made me too embarassed to tell the bar lady that I didn't actually want it when she brought it, and appropriately for the moment it was the absolute worst glass of wine I've ever tasted. It smelled like sour milk. I drank it all, because it was $4.50.
I left when the bar started to feel like a New Delhi train platform. Enough people had touched my arms from behind with that generic, I'm-trying-to-get-through touch to last for years. Erin and I had run down the street to pee at Jimmy John's because it was easier than getting to the back of the Jackpot Saloon where the bathrooms are. I felt like I had a customer's right to JJ's bathroom, having eaten their roast deliciousness sandwich just hours before.
Four and a half hours later I was sitting at my table at the Farmer's Market selling scones and coffee to environmentally responsible people carrying canvas totes full of vegetables. At the same time, unbeknownst to me, 2% milk was seeping through the passenger seat in my car, straight through the seat and dripping onto the carpet on the floor. It was the travel mug of milk I bring for people to add to their coffee, which I had set on the seat instead of in a cup holder for absolutely no reason before it toppled over on the ride to the market and which was now making my car a cesspool of nasty pinot grigiot smell.
Today I passed a little boy with a lemonade stand on the side of the road. I didn't know anyone actually did that. I turned around and bought a cup for fifty cents. "There's a lot of good business today" said the little boy. I realized that I had missed my cue and that most people probably amusedly asked him how the business was today as they ordered their icy lemony drink in a plastic cup. "Oh, yeah?" I said, followed with some comment about how he was on a good street for this, blah blah blah. Little Boy didn't actually care very much about what I was saying, but he smiled when I handed him the quarters. It was gratifying.
The End.
"There's an eight dollar cover tonight." He said it smugly, as if I would respond with shock and bemoaningly depart the bar or fork over money.
"Yeah, I'm on the list," I said, putting little quotation marks in the air around the word "list" for no real reason. As if the list were metaphysical, as if it were an almost-invisible flying ship making its ethereal way around the bar, with me on it.
"Oh." He wanted my eight dollars in his hands, in a stack with all the other 1's and 5's. He mumbled something about seeing my id, even though I've shown this exact same man my id probably twenty times in the past couple of months. I permitted him to see it once more, once again proving that I am nowhere close to being underaged, and he skittered away from me.
I was early but it was already crowded and I couldn't find a table so sat at the bar to eat my delicately wrapped Jimmy John's gourmet sandwich, feeling proud of myself for remembering to ask for sprouts. It's the kind of thing I usually wish I had remembered to do, but don't actually do. "Ask for sprouts," I say to myself as I step up to order, but it somehow just doesn't come out. Sometimes instead I say something about extra onions or mayo or something, which in fact I do not want.
I couldn't decide whether to order a drink. Maybe some wine, suggested Spencer, and it seemed not to be the worst idea. Pinot noir, I thought to myself. Order pinot noir, but definitely not pinot grigio, which I detest. And thinking about detesting pinot grigio made me order it, of course, by mistake, which made me too embarassed to tell the bar lady that I didn't actually want it when she brought it, and appropriately for the moment it was the absolute worst glass of wine I've ever tasted. It smelled like sour milk. I drank it all, because it was $4.50.
I left when the bar started to feel like a New Delhi train platform. Enough people had touched my arms from behind with that generic, I'm-trying-to-get-through touch to last for years. Erin and I had run down the street to pee at Jimmy John's because it was easier than getting to the back of the Jackpot Saloon where the bathrooms are. I felt like I had a customer's right to JJ's bathroom, having eaten their roast deliciousness sandwich just hours before.
Four and a half hours later I was sitting at my table at the Farmer's Market selling scones and coffee to environmentally responsible people carrying canvas totes full of vegetables. At the same time, unbeknownst to me, 2% milk was seeping through the passenger seat in my car, straight through the seat and dripping onto the carpet on the floor. It was the travel mug of milk I bring for people to add to their coffee, which I had set on the seat instead of in a cup holder for absolutely no reason before it toppled over on the ride to the market and which was now making my car a cesspool of nasty pinot grigiot smell.
Today I passed a little boy with a lemonade stand on the side of the road. I didn't know anyone actually did that. I turned around and bought a cup for fifty cents. "There's a lot of good business today" said the little boy. I realized that I had missed my cue and that most people probably amusedly asked him how the business was today as they ordered their icy lemony drink in a plastic cup. "Oh, yeah?" I said, followed with some comment about how he was on a good street for this, blah blah blah. Little Boy didn't actually care very much about what I was saying, but he smiled when I handed him the quarters. It was gratifying.
The End.
posted by sarah at 5:33 PM
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