Bar Therapy: Session 2 – Cracker Rack

It’s not nice to laugh at people. Well, it feels good to laugh, so I’m wondering how to delicately maneuver the path between having a good chuckle with a bro and offending a customer. As I have little filter left, migrating has turned into stumbling.

The bar top was slow last night, yet the tables busy. That means I have little company and wind up mostly filling glasses for the servers. That particular bar also provides a free buffet to customers. Eventually, when the tables are full, a customer gives it the ole “fuck it” and decides that a bar spot in front of the old bartender will suffice.

I have a knack for reading minds, so allow me to present a busty woman’s thoughts as she approached.

Fuck. No seats. Christ. These fucking free-loaders. Ugh. Oh, the bar is empty. Suppose I could eat there. Wonder why nobody is sitting there. That bartender is cute and seems less creepy than most. I just want a soda, though. He’ll judge me. Fuck. Maybe a glass of wine will do. Ooh, this little pastry looks delicious. Fuck it. I’m eating this first–before the kung-pow whatever this chicken is.

I gave my best welcoming smile while consciously keeping my gaze above her neck. I’m probably less of a boob guy than most, so I rarely struggle with keeping my eyes up. I noticed her take a bite from a mini-pastry as our eyes met. It happened to be the sort of pastry topped with walnuts. One of those pesky nuts tumbled into the valley of the glands and became a chestnut. (Yes, at times I regress to my inner 12-year-old.)

Now, a gentleman would have had control at this point. A gentleman would have completely ignored the tumbling nut and offered a frosty beverage. A gentleman would not react to this non-noteworthy accident.

Alas, I’m an ass. I laughed. She looked horrified.

“Well done, my lady.”

“You saw that, didn’t you?”

“Uh huh.”

“So, I suppose shoving my hand down my blouse would make things worse.”

“Or, better, depending on the perspective. May I suggest a less obvious method? Maybe pull your blouse outward and let gravity do its best.”

“Right. That might work for a less shall-we-say busty woman. The nut has wedged itself.”

“Um. OK. Let’s look at the bright side.”

“Oh, this should be good. What is the bright side, mister?”

“I see a ring. Safe to assume you have a spouse?”

“I do. He’s busy dumping our mortgage payment into an electronic roulette machine. I’m here to avoid any attempt to reason with him.”

“Yes, yes, I understand completely. But, you do love this man, do you not?”

“Most of the time. What does this have to do with the nut now stuck in my front bra clasp?”

“Ah, well, the way I see it after he wins next month’s mortgage payment, and you two lovebirds decide to head up to the suite for a little celebration, he’ll be treated to a fun little surprise.”

“The nut … from this danish … in my bra.”

“Precisely.”

“Like a toy inside a snack.”

“Bingo. In fact, being of the entrepreneurial mind, I’m about to buy the domain Cracker Rack dot com. I’ll sell treats of all flavors and sizes. I’ll make sure they are relatively heat resistant. Can’t have a boob gummy get all melty. Chocolate is right out. Hmm, maybe wrapped candies. A raspberry sour of sorts.”

“Can I have a soda?”

“Yes, of course.”

She sat and ate quietly. I assumed she was going to ask to speak to my manager. Finally, after a few minutes, she relented.

“You know what? You made my day. You’re one funny fucker, mister bartender. Have a great night.”

She winked and left me a fiver. Phew. I’ll live to perv, I mean serve another day.

About the author

Author of humorous essays about relationships and lifestyles.

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