[Thanks to everyone who emailed me with encouragement and kind words; I apologize for this chapter being...well....about three weeks late. It really annoys me when reality interferes with my playtime. This chapter is shorter than 1, but that just means that #3 will be here quicker than #2.
Consider all the standard disclaimers, warnings, and introductory statements included by reference.]
(From Chapter 1)
"So how did you tell them?"
I sat back and looked at Glenn. After a moment, he looked up at me. We looked at each other for a minute, and then he smiled. I smiled back, and he raised his left eyebrow in a sort of apologetic way.
"If you don't mind telling me about it, that is....," he said, somewhat shyly, I thought.
"I don't mind, but we're going to have to have more beer," I said. Glenn looked down at his empty bottle and then at my empty glass, looked back up at me, gave me a sort of decisive nod, and started off for the bar.
CHAPTER TWO
I sat back heavily in my chair and was momentarily thankful that I had picked a seat that had my back to the bar. I often wished I could see my face at times like this, just to note the expression. Since I had only the most tentative grasp on all the conflicting emotions running through my head, I had no idea what my face looked like. I was guessing it wasn't pretty.
Without a beer to keep my hands occupied, Jack Benny like, I was relegated to playing with the empty glass, methodically tapping its chipped base against the wood table top. Nervous energy really manifests itself at the most inappropriate times. I could be plotting conversational strategy, or getting the time lines of my personal coming-out story straight in my head. Hell, I could just be trying to figure out what I was willing to tell Glenn about myself and my life. Instead, I was compelled to beat this damn glass against the table. Productive? Doubtful. But, for some reason, it was very satisfying.
"Here you go. I got you a shot too. I figured if you were at the bar, you'd be into them already. Here. Let me get rid of that." Glenn put the drinks on the table and took my empty glass out of my hand.
Okay. My drinking had obviously gotten out of hand. But, honestly, I was glad for the shot of whisky. If things went well tonight, tonight's shots would be the last ones I'd have for a while, I decided. If things went badly, this particular shot would be a good start on several others..
I took a few sips from my beer, creating a bit of room at the top of the glass, and tipped in the contents of the shot glass. I'd developed quite a liking for my version of a boilermaker lately, and Glenn had poured me more than a few. I didn't like being predictable, but there were worse things to be known for, I reasoned. I took a few sips from my now enhanced beer as Glenn took his seat--not across from me as before, but in the next seat over at the round table, so that we were at right angles to each other.
"Can I try that?" Glenn reached out and grabbed my beer before I could say anything, his hand brushing mine slightly as I moved it from the glass. "I've always wondered what that tasted like."
I nodded and smiled, and he took a tentative taste, and then a longer drink with significantly more gusto. I guessed he liked it. He took another drink and then put the glass back in front of me. Not wanting to be outdone, I took two sips myself.
"I like it. I didn't think I would, but I do. I don't really like Foster's or Knob Creek, but together they're alright." Glenn nodded his head for emphasis, as he stared at my glass. "That's not going to last very long if we both drink it." He smiled at me shyly again.
This guy was a real pro at throwing me off balance. And, the fact that my brain was still trying to get a handle on this entire situation wasn't helping. I mean, I'd gone from a lonely night at the bar to sharing a single glass with my favorite bartender in...well....no time at all. I didn't know what was going to come up next, but I was guessing a few more of these drink/shot combos were going to help facilitate things.
"Tell you what. If you'll get us a few more, then we can drink them all night. And put them on my tab, if Danielle can find it," I said, with probably more sarcasm in my voice than was advisable.
"Hell. The only reason Danielle can find the Bud Light is because I made her stock the cooler this morning. What's with you and her anyway?" Glenn looked up at me with a half-smile across his face.
"Me? Nothing really. She just never remembers what I drink. And she always wants to know if I want to run a tab. On crowded nights she wants a credit card before she starts one. But, she doesn't work as much as the rest of you guys so maybe she hasn't seen me that often." I felt compelled to apologize for Danielle for some reason.
"She's seen you often enough. She's just figured out that she can make more off the other customers, " Glenn said, flatly.
I didn't know how to respond to that. I mean, I'd always prided myself on my tips, and I tipped well for even the really bad servers. But, as Glenn said it, I knew I probably didn't give Danielle what I gave Glenn or some of the other bartenders in tips, because I knew I gave them a lot. But I didn't want to think of myself as doing that--only treating the guys well because I was gay. That made it all seem....well....dirty. And cheap. And a lot like a bizarre form of prostitution. So I sat there, and looked at my beer, and thought about what to say.
"No, I mean, I don't mean it quite like that." Glenn started backing up a bit on his statement after looking at the expression on my face. "I mean, you tip really really well. You just don't stay as long if she's the bartender as some of the other guys do." He smiled at me again. "I guess that little breast shake thing that she's got going on doesn't work all that well on you."
I looked back at him and didn't crack a smile at all. More than he realized, he'd hurt my feelings with the tip thing. I didn't like for anybody to talk about tips--my parents had ingrained in me this notion that talking about money was always bad form. You don't write checks in drive-thru restaurants, you don't fuss about a restaurant ticket even if its blatantly wrong, and you always hold the doors open for the people behind you. Most of all, you never talk about money in public. These were the rules of the game and I simply didn't know any other way to play.
"Look. That didn't come out right." Glenn could tell that I wasn't happy, probably from the expression on my face. "We all get together, right? After the bar closes? Nobody else is up when we all get off so we all hang out, ok? So everybody talks about who they saw that night, and everything. So, when I say that you were in, or the other guys say that you were in, we never thought much about it until Danielle said one night that she didn't know why you only had one or two drinks and left all the time. And, honestly, we thought she was joking, cause everybody knows how long you stay when you come in. But, us laughing at her made her kind of mad apparently, cause she started telling us from then on how many beers you had when she worked. And honestly, man, she's right--you just don't stay very long if she's here. And...well. I mean...that's cool, if you do that." Glenn stopped talking and took another drink from my beer.
Now I really felt bad. We'd gone from talking about money to Glenn calling me on how I tended to prefer the company of attractive young college boys to that of presumably equally competent female bartenders. Frying pan into the fire style, I'd just had an `unbiased' third party tell me that a central notion that I had of myself--that I didn't discriminate on the basis of sex, race, orientation, or whatever--was nothing but a polite fiction. Embarrassed, I felt like a stalker. Worse than that, apparently I stalked service personnel who, while required by economic pressure to respond favorably to my requests for beer, really knew that such requests were nothing but thinly-veneered suggestions for sexual favors. I was in deep here, fairly caught by my own actions, and I had no idea about how to put a good face on this. So, I didn't say anything. For about ten seconds, Glenn didn't say anything either.
"Look. I'm sorry. I mean, I'm glad when I see you come in. And, it makes me happy that you hang out longer if I'm working than you do if somebody else is here," he finally said, in a rush. Immediately, he took another sip of my beer and started slowly rocking a salt shaker back and forth on the table. Apparently, I wasn't the only one with a bit of nervous energy. I watched the salt shaker in his hands for another ten seconds before I decided that we'd both been on this topic far too long already. I pushed my chair back from the table and stood up beside Glenn.
"Here. Why don't you finish this one, and I'll see if I can't get two more," I said. I was still embarrassed, but Glenn had made me feel better. And, I figured, getting a few drinks myself from the bar would give me the opportunity to be extra-nice to Danielle. If I died of alcohol poisoning, I told myself, she wasn't going to fuss about me going home early tonight.
(Continued in Chapter 3)