It was a dark and not-so-stormy night. Our young heroine, after a long day of work, decided to take her work to a local bar, for libations and a little dinner. After a quick phone call home, she'd eat, read, and go home.
It seems that any time our young heroine decides to do something so simple, something else happens. During a phone call with our naive heroine's mother, she realized that the series of helicopters that appeared to be repeatedly taking the same route were in fact the same helicopter. Circling. Eventually with a spotlight. Whatever.
Heroine remembers Nancy Drew days, recalls with fond memories joy of sleuthing. She wanders up and down the neighborhood, trying to determine how many cop cars, where they are positioned, why an armored truck would be needed, what the blast radius could be and if that should deter her from satisfying idle curiosity. She understands from a German tourist and neighborhood lady who's heard neighborhood gossip that someone is in the area, a gun was involved and there's something about a crash. Young heroine shrugs her shoulders, tells the German tourists that Munich is wonderful and wanders up her street.
While idling at an intersection, straining her poor eyes (with sight exacerbated by expired prescription glasses) she hears her friendly dubiously-employed all-day-Starbucks-loiterer friend Brill (yes, that is his real name, like the pad). He tells her that he's heard secondhand there was a car chase, shooting and flight on foot into the courthouse. Heroine's eyes light up that there appears to be a good story here, her stomach rumbles, and she realizes that Nancy Drew wouldn't have gotten her scoop from a guy who reads the Post and drinks iced coffee all day. Nice life, admittedly. But going to Starbucks camp all summer? Eh.
She slinks off to her local pub. By local, she just means a place down the street.
She, continuing to speak in third person as is wont, orders a glass of chardonnay. One single tuna tartare taco. A half dozen oysters. A chilled cucumber soup. And a tomato/mozzarella salad, that each time she gets it reminds her of her beloved brother, who surprisingly likes caprese salads. She's not working that night so admires her food, pines for the photo-taking-then-eating experience, but demurs and just eats.
Into her second glass of wine, a man sits down. Her depth perception is poor because of said glasses, but she notices he throws small clumps onto the bar. Of money. Specifically, one dollar bills.
As she only read Nancy Drew books when young and didn't watch CSI when older, she was uncertain whether he was just drunk or just high or both. He explains to the bartender he would like a ___ and ____ (Coke and something else). And a pint. Bartender fails to recognize the most ubiquitous bar term in use (probably because of the slurring) and asks Nancy Drew-wannabe's neighbor what he wants. A pint, he says!
Heroine continues to read obscure work-related material as money-wadder starts talking. Because our heroine can talk to anyone and is glad to focus the other direction away from the young woman who smells like she bathed in mosquito repellent, she indulges.
It was his birthday yesterday, but he was too [indiscernible] to celebrate properly. Two drinks in front of him, he proceeded to explain he's got Hepatitis C, so the most I (er, she) can expect is a friend. Last night he was kicking away the gnats by his dumpster. And he's a sinnnnger. (He auditioned to heroine and bartender). What instrument do you play, our heroine asked with arched brow, as moments before he pretended to twirl his hair after heroine responded she was reading the "news" (apparently she said it in an overly feminine or mockable way). Heroine learned his ex lived in Tulsa, he'd lived all over the States, favorite place being San Diego and he was from Indiana. Between disease-listing and offers to buy our heroine another glass of wine (but after he tipped the bartender saying, "don't say a poor guy never tipped you!") our heroine soberingly was told that she made her drinking companion feel like a human. Included. Part of the world. The bartenders were watching like it was a show. Bring it on.
Yes, that happened. Among a whole bar of professional working men, the one who talks to me and buys me a drink is the one who wanted to fork over seven wadded up dollars from the depths of his pockets from his birthday stash, from what I saw, 33% of his birthday budget. Ah, the irony.
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