weren’t they? She figured it might be easier to get picked up if she was sloppy drunk, so she wanted whatever would do the job. She eyed the one-handed man clandestinely. He was so handsome. The bartender was turning back to her. He brought the beer and set it down on the coaster.
“Dollar-fifty,” he said, and stood lingering impatiently. She paid him and tipped him a dollar and he thanked her and turned away. Then he started waiting on the other people.
Miss Muffett turned dreamily on her stool and listened to the music and started looking around. There were a bunch of guys in the back at a table, shooting pool. One of them had a ponytail that hung out the back of his cap where the little adjustable headband was. One fat guy in starched Duck Head overalls was Pavarotti with a larger beard.
She looked at the beer. She guessed she’d have to drink some of it. It was as dark as Coca-Cola and it had a thick and foamy brown head. She picked it up and took a sip from it. It was hard to keep from making a face because it tasted so incredibly bitter to her. Yuck City! When she looked up, the bartender was watching her. She smiled at him and took another drink. The second one made her gag. The bartender saw her and walked back over with a worried look on his face.
“You don’t like it, huh.”
“Hey, man. How about a Fighting Cock on the rocks over here?”
“Well…actually…no,” she said. “I think maybe I should just get a bourbon, maybe a bourbon and Coke…”
“A bourbon?”
“Yes.”
“Mind if I ask you a polite question?” He was smiling now.
“Why no.”
“You know any more about bourbon than you do about beer?”
It seemed that several people were listening to this conversation. They seemed to be waiting for what she was going to say next.
“Not really,” she said. “I don’t drink much.”
“You don’t?”
“No.”
He leaned in. “Is that beer bitter to you?”
“Well, yes, it is. A little. Actually, quite a lot. To me, anyway.”
“Some people have to develop a taste for beer.”
Somebody hollered: “Hey, Scotty, Schlitz and a Blatz and a Schmidt’s and a Schaeffer and a Rollin’ Rock?”
“Well, how do you ever develop a taste for it if it tastes so awful the first time you try it?” she said. “I mean, why would you want to keep trying it? That’s like getting beat up and enjoying it.”
The bartender laughed and put both hands on the bar.
“You want me to make you a drink that tastes real good?”
“That would be wonderful,” Miss Muffett said.
He cocked his head for her to tell him the truth.
“You aim to get drunk?”
“That’s what I came in here for,” Miss Muffett said.
“Fix her a lemon drop, Scotty,” one guy said.
“Naw, man, make her a sloe gin fizz,” another one said.
“I don’t know much about drinking,” she said to those around her in a general way. And then she saw the handsome one-handed dog man with the thick hair leaning against a wall and talking on the telephone, but the dog was still tied to the stool. She was able to watch him since he had his back turned to her. He looked somewhat mysterious in his long leather coat.
The people standing around her started leaning in toward her and giving her their names. There was Ricky and Ben and Joel and Matt and Michael and Mark and Traver and Keith and Horatio Potter who lived just down the road and trapped part-time. She asked Horatio what the snarling thing up on the wall was and he said it was a coy-dog he’d killed, a cross between a coyote and a dog, nasty sumbitch, wasn’t it?
Scotty brought a drink in a narrow glass with different colors: pink, yellow, white. It had two straws but no parasol. Perhaps a pink poo-poo?
“Here go. Lock them lips around this,” he said. “Scotty’s tsunami, on the house.”
“Why thank you,” Miss Muffett said, and slid her mouth over one of the straws and sucked. Mmm, mmm, she inwardly went. She’d never had one this good, like
“Dollar-fifty,” he said, and stood lingering impatiently. She paid him and tipped him a dollar and he thanked her and turned away. Then he started waiting on the other people.
Miss Muffett turned dreamily on her stool and listened to the music and started looking around. There were a bunch of guys in the back at a table, shooting pool. One of them had a ponytail that hung out the back of his cap where the little adjustable headband was. One fat guy in starched Duck Head overalls was Pavarotti with a larger beard.
She looked at the beer. She guessed she’d have to drink some of it. It was as dark as Coca-Cola and it had a thick and foamy brown head. She picked it up and took a sip from it. It was hard to keep from making a face because it tasted so incredibly bitter to her. Yuck City! When she looked up, the bartender was watching her. She smiled at him and took another drink. The second one made her gag. The bartender saw her and walked back over with a worried look on his face.
“You don’t like it, huh.”
“Hey, man. How about a Fighting Cock on the rocks over here?”
“Well…actually…no,” she said. “I think maybe I should just get a bourbon, maybe a bourbon and Coke…”
“A bourbon?”
“Yes.”
“Mind if I ask you a polite question?” He was smiling now.
“Why no.”
“You know any more about bourbon than you do about beer?”
It seemed that several people were listening to this conversation. They seemed to be waiting for what she was going to say next.
“Not really,” she said. “I don’t drink much.”
“You don’t?”
“No.”
He leaned in. “Is that beer bitter to you?”
“Well, yes, it is. A little. Actually, quite a lot. To me, anyway.”
“Some people have to develop a taste for beer.”
Somebody hollered: “Hey, Scotty, Schlitz and a Blatz and a Schmidt’s and a Schaeffer and a Rollin’ Rock?”
“Well, how do you ever develop a taste for it if it tastes so awful the first time you try it?” she said. “I mean, why would you want to keep trying it? That’s like getting beat up and enjoying it.”
The bartender laughed and put both hands on the bar.
“You want me to make you a drink that tastes real good?”
“That would be wonderful,” Miss Muffett said.
He cocked his head for her to tell him the truth.
“You aim to get drunk?”
“That’s what I came in here for,” Miss Muffett said.
“Fix her a lemon drop, Scotty,” one guy said.
“Naw, man, make her a sloe gin fizz,” another one said.
“I don’t know much about drinking,” she said to those around her in a general way. And then she saw the handsome one-handed dog man with the thick hair leaning against a wall and talking on the telephone, but the dog was still tied to the stool. She was able to watch him since he had his back turned to her. He looked somewhat mysterious in his long leather coat.
The people standing around her started leaning in toward her and giving her their names. There was Ricky and Ben and Joel and Matt and Michael and Mark and Traver and Keith and Horatio Potter who lived just down the road and trapped part-time. She asked Horatio what the snarling thing up on the wall was and he said it was a coy-dog he’d killed, a cross between a coyote and a dog, nasty sumbitch, wasn’t it?
Scotty brought a drink in a narrow glass with different colors: pink, yellow, white. It had two straws but no parasol. Perhaps a pink poo-poo?
“Here go. Lock them lips around this,” he said. “Scotty’s tsunami, on the house.”
“Why thank you,” Miss Muffett said, and slid her mouth over one of the straws and sucked. Mmm, mmm, she inwardly went. She’d never had one this good, like
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