bar; I’d like two Bud Lights.”
“Dude, we sell the beers we make. That’s it. I will happily bring you tasting glasses of our Pale Ale and pilsner, if you want to stick around.” He turned to Deb, the nearest woman to him. “And what will you be having?”
Mike interrupted. “It’s her birthday, and I’m not sure what she wants, but whatever it is it ought to be from mug 1138. I’m 225, and I’ll take an Oatmeal Stout.”
Deb turned to Mike, and her cheeks were flushed. She was grinning. “You bought me a cup!”
“A mug, but yes, I did. What shall this young man fill it with?”
“I liked the stout too, the king one!”
“Imperial Stout?”
“Yeah, that one, but make me get something else after I’ve had two.”
“Excellent.” The waiter turned to Lamar. “What would you like to have?”
“You still got Backwoods Bastard on draft?”
“Yup.”
“Awesome, mug 526.”
“And for the other young lady?”
“I’ll take a Pale Ale, mug 941.”
“Great, I’ll be back in just a few minutes.”
The waiter left, and Corey turned to Becky. They talked in heated whispers. Everyone else pretended to ignore them until Mike cleared his throat and made to speak, and then Becky shot out to Corey in a unsuccessfully muffled voice, “You said you’d been here before or I would have told you. Knock it off.”
Corey looked about for help. When there was none to be found, the big man lowered his eyes and waited for his drinks. He didn’t wait long. When the waiter had finished distributing the beers, Corey looked at the two small glasses in confusion, and he finally took a drink from the lighter-colored of the two.
Becky said, “Happy B-day, Deb!”
After the sentiment was echoed by the rest of the table, Deb said, “Thanks, you guys. And thanks for the mug, Mike. It’s awesome.”
“No problem.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Mike and Deb finally escaped the bar three hours later. The night air was brisk as they walked, but there was no snow, wind, or rain, so it was tolerable.
Deb said, “More places should do that.”
“Do what?”
“Let you buy something to be used by just you. Like if I could buy a plate to use at all of my favorite restaurants, or custom chopsticks for sushi.”
“Couldn’t you just buy a nice set of chopsticks and bring them with you?”
“You are completely missing the point.”
Mike frowned. Women had always told him he was missing the point.
“Don’t get all frowny about it. It’s not the same if I have to bring them home and wash them. I want to walk into a restaurant, say ‘plate 25,’ and have someone bring my food on it.”
“Would you have your own silverware and appetizer plates too?”
“That’d be too much stuff to store, don’t you think?”
“I guess so. I don’t think it would be that much worse than storing just one plate for every customer, though. I can’t believe I’m arguing with you about this.”
“I can. You live for irrelevant arguments.”
“No, that’s you.”
“Well, either way.”
“Right.”
“Do you think we’ll get more snow? It’s so nice right now.”
“I hope not. I’ve had my fill for the year.”
“There’s your museum.”
“I wouldn’t necessarily say it’s mine.”
“Do you think there are any other people pining away for it under the age of seventy?”
“It never occurred to me to wonder.”
“You’ll have to trust me then—there’s you and nobody else. Let’s go check if we can see in the windows.”
“OK.”
Deb placed her hand over her eyes to shield them from a dormant sun and made a brief show of looking for the police.
“Coast is clear, let’s go.”
They crossed the street together. The museum was a short, squat building, in an area that had long ago gone from fashionable to disreputable, and thus it was abandoned. But it was one of those places with a discernable energy; it glowed for Mike the same way old houses or library books can glow.
Deb cleared a layer of
“Dude, we sell the beers we make. That’s it. I will happily bring you tasting glasses of our Pale Ale and pilsner, if you want to stick around.” He turned to Deb, the nearest woman to him. “And what will you be having?”
Mike interrupted. “It’s her birthday, and I’m not sure what she wants, but whatever it is it ought to be from mug 1138. I’m 225, and I’ll take an Oatmeal Stout.”
Deb turned to Mike, and her cheeks were flushed. She was grinning. “You bought me a cup!”
“A mug, but yes, I did. What shall this young man fill it with?”
“I liked the stout too, the king one!”
“Imperial Stout?”
“Yeah, that one, but make me get something else after I’ve had two.”
“Excellent.” The waiter turned to Lamar. “What would you like to have?”
“You still got Backwoods Bastard on draft?”
“Yup.”
“Awesome, mug 526.”
“And for the other young lady?”
“I’ll take a Pale Ale, mug 941.”
“Great, I’ll be back in just a few minutes.”
The waiter left, and Corey turned to Becky. They talked in heated whispers. Everyone else pretended to ignore them until Mike cleared his throat and made to speak, and then Becky shot out to Corey in a unsuccessfully muffled voice, “You said you’d been here before or I would have told you. Knock it off.”
Corey looked about for help. When there was none to be found, the big man lowered his eyes and waited for his drinks. He didn’t wait long. When the waiter had finished distributing the beers, Corey looked at the two small glasses in confusion, and he finally took a drink from the lighter-colored of the two.
Becky said, “Happy B-day, Deb!”
After the sentiment was echoed by the rest of the table, Deb said, “Thanks, you guys. And thanks for the mug, Mike. It’s awesome.”
“No problem.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Mike and Deb finally escaped the bar three hours later. The night air was brisk as they walked, but there was no snow, wind, or rain, so it was tolerable.
Deb said, “More places should do that.”
“Do what?”
“Let you buy something to be used by just you. Like if I could buy a plate to use at all of my favorite restaurants, or custom chopsticks for sushi.”
“Couldn’t you just buy a nice set of chopsticks and bring them with you?”
“You are completely missing the point.”
Mike frowned. Women had always told him he was missing the point.
“Don’t get all frowny about it. It’s not the same if I have to bring them home and wash them. I want to walk into a restaurant, say ‘plate 25,’ and have someone bring my food on it.”
“Would you have your own silverware and appetizer plates too?”
“That’d be too much stuff to store, don’t you think?”
“I guess so. I don’t think it would be that much worse than storing just one plate for every customer, though. I can’t believe I’m arguing with you about this.”
“I can. You live for irrelevant arguments.”
“No, that’s you.”
“Well, either way.”
“Right.”
“Do you think we’ll get more snow? It’s so nice right now.”
“I hope not. I’ve had my fill for the year.”
“There’s your museum.”
“I wouldn’t necessarily say it’s mine.”
“Do you think there are any other people pining away for it under the age of seventy?”
“It never occurred to me to wonder.”
“You’ll have to trust me then—there’s you and nobody else. Let’s go check if we can see in the windows.”
“OK.”
Deb placed her hand over her eyes to shield them from a dormant sun and made a brief show of looking for the police.
“Coast is clear, let’s go.”
They crossed the street together. The museum was a short, squat building, in an area that had long ago gone from fashionable to disreputable, and thus it was abandoned. But it was one of those places with a discernable energy; it glowed for Mike the same way old houses or library books can glow.
Deb cleared a layer of
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