I have decided not to write about it. That being, perhaps, one of the toughest things to admit, that it simply isn’t necessary, interesting or important. My thought was to use the incident as a jumping off point and try to paint a picture of the obvious and then toss in a surprise ending to wrap it up. Almost every writer that I admire does this, from Tom Robbins to Cormac McCarthy.
The incident in question involves a waitress that I met on Saturday night in Westport. Young, beautiful and charming she had me at ‘what can I gotcha?’ As I sat and watched her graceful orchestration the small, only-game-in-town seafood restaurant like a symphony, a funny plot line developed as I sipped the IPA she recommended, saying it was her fave.
The supporting back-story is that as I fumbled to cough up the $6.50 for the ale I was down to counting off the remaining ones in my pocket stash, and then, currently owing only six of them, to empty my pocket of change. I placed the assortment of coins on the counter (along with a half-inch copper washer) and she quickly picked out a quarter, two dimes and a nickel tossing them into her till and coyly commanding that I enjoy the beverage. The remainder of the change, minus the washer, I swept up and dropped into her tip jar. It may have amounted to another fifty cents. What makes all this small change is that I went through this poor-boy routine not so much to provide the correct amount for the beer but more because I didn’t want to break the several fifties, twenties, or the pair of C-notes that wrapped by mobile pocket bank. A quirky move she took obvious note of.
I am sitting, watching, scribbling notes in my journal and sipping the delicious IPA when the thought pops up like a salmon jumping out of the water. In a matter of minutes the entire scene has played out in my mind. There might be a way that I can make up for being a tight-wad jerk. There is only a group of four ladies left in the joint, sharing pictures on their phones of what I assume are grandkids or cats. I scan their table and realize that unless they reorder more ice tea they are almost done and will soon be leaving. Leaving me as the only customer.
The ladies finish their teas and get up to leave. My heart is pounding like a big bass drum (thank you Mick), and my pint glass is one sip from empty.
Shooting me a glance, immediately sizes up the situation and takes a hard left to visit. As she walks, more of a graceful ballet sashay than simple ambulation, I again take delight in her combination of composure, completion and charisma. Wow, I think, what a beautiful girl. She gets to my small table and smiles. I immediately know what it feels like to be a glacier in these times of global warming and climate change.
‘Another?’, she asks in a voice that is all honey and cinnamon.
‘Yeah, excellent suggestion by the way, thanks.’ I say.
She hesitates for a split second and I deduce that I am to pay up front. Geese, here we go again - but wait - I have a play here. I reach, and wrapped on the outside of my credit cards and cash - I haven’t used a wallet in twenty years - are the pair of Bens. (I ignore the voice in my head loudly warning to please not double down on being a jerk.)
I peel one off and place it on the highly lacquered table.
‘You want something else with that?’ She asks tilting her head slightly left.
‘Yes, I think I do.’
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