Friday, September 3, 1999

Labor Day Eve

Friday. I have dinner with friends, shoot some pool, and I'm on my way home. It's 10:45 when I stop into the bar to see what's happening. They were slammed tonight! Glasses are stacked all over the bar. Dirty glasses, dirty dishes, dirty ashtrays. Terry races around making drinks and trying to catch up on the cleaning. And what has to be a first—one of the managers is behind the bar washing glasses!

"Everybody wants Tequila," Terry says. "I've never sold so many shots of Tequila in one night! There was nobody in here until 6. Where did all these people come from?"

Deane (pronounced Dee-Ann) sits beside me to talk for a minute. Deane is a waitress with attitude. If you didn't know her you might think she's mad at the world—and sometimes she looks like she might be—but she's okay. I like Deane.

"If you were off the clock I'd buy you a drink," I tell her.

"I'll be off in an hour."

I'm full of beer and burger and bratwurst and I'm really tired. In an hour I'll likely be asleep. Goodnight, Deane. Sorry I couldn't wait for you. It would have been fun.

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