Triple Play

I ate lunch and dinner at Applebee's today. Now I'm back in at 11 pm for a beer. Three visits in one day. Who says I don't have a life? I do have a life. I just rent it from Applebee's.

Most people go to Applebee's during the day. But the late night atmosphere is different, especially on a Saturday. The place is almost empty tonight. A regular who goes by the moniker "Skeeter" sits at one end of the bar eating dinner. I sit at the other end. Bridgette is bartending. When Bridgette is on a roll, she's a force of nature. Tonight she's a little more mellow. Bridgette and I banter a little, although the banter is 90 percent hers and 10 percent mine.("What do you call a dog with no legs?" "Don't know, what?" "Doesn't matter, he won't come.")

Around midnight Carolyn comes in. Carolyn is a waitress here—and an eye-catching woman of 24. She has a pretty face and a figure that, even in the unflattering Applebee uniform, is dynamite. But tonight she's off-duty, wearing her "civvies", tight fitting jeans and an equally tight, figure-revealing top. Ow! When she walks down the street, I bet her name suddenly becomes "Hey Baby!" Or maybe "Yo, Yo, Baby, Whassup, Whassup!" Depends on the street. Sometimes I try to speak to her, but she doesn't slow down enough for more than a "Hi Carolyn". Maybe she's shy. Maybe she thinks I'm hitting on her and she doesn't like it. Maybe she doesn't want to waste time talking to "some old dude" at the bar who isn't her customer anyway. Who knows.

Terry goes off the clock. She puts on her civvies, comes over and sits down beside me. Terry is 32 and married. And though she's dressed simply—shirt and shorts—she looks terrific. Terry is pretty and sexy, and her workouts at the gym are enhancing everything. We talk, and for a while I can almost imagine that this young, attractive woman is sitting there because she enjoys my company. I can almost imagine it, but not quite. Because I know why she's sitting there. She's killing time until Bridgette goes off the clock, and there's no one else to talk to. Reality check. But I don't care why she's here, I enjoy her company just as much.

Soon enough it's quarter to two. The restaurant's been closed for 45 minutes. Bridgette is off the clock now and has changed her clothes. She and Terry are ready to leave. Time for me to go home.

And I do. I go home. And so at 3:30 on a Sunday morning I sit in an utterly dark room, lit only by the phosphor glow of a computer screen, headphones on, music playing, a beer beside me, trying to capture a moment before it fades forever.

You guys, be good. And g'night, all.