work, cigs, beer, pizza

I'd just gotten finished with my workly duties at the part-time job, having had only one cigarette four hours ago and I'd begun my shift four hours prior to that. A soft, yet persistent, animal growl had begun to reverberate in the back of my fragile brain; my cold weather gear in place I was carefully choosing my steps toward the exit when the boss (who is cool) hailed me with a wave into 'his office.'
Shortly thereafter we'd agreed that it would be good to give me more work and he'd fixed me with a dead-pan look: "We're all smart here. I think you fit in and it's clear that you want to learn and that you're made of the right material for me to feel good about giving you more responsibilities."
Blah blah blah. I was listening carefully but it was growing difficult.
I was at a severe disadvantage. Normally, my jonesin' manifests itself in the form of aggression, but this time I was receiving great news and a genuinely good employer was taking the time to recognize my qualities. It was no mean feat to suppress the tears.
I've been looking for regular work for quite awhile and this was news good enough to cut me to the bone, especially in my emotionally ragged state...
I was mechanically shifting my fingers back and forth in my coat pocket-'that's my matchbook, feels like about six left; that's my pack of smokes, feels like about 6 left'- while he showed me the combo to the front door of the place and let me know what I'd be doing for the next few days.
Cool. All right. Ok, ok, ok...
Finally outside and breathing the native cancer-weed of America, my weary bones shambling toward home, the long day's stressors had left each of my joints in the grip of hellish complaint, and it was the coldest night of the year, thus far.
Without deliberation, I was planning on getting a slice of pepperoni pie and a bottle of beer at the sweet-ass pizzeria on my way home; in the back of my mind I was constructing an elaborate scheme that would culminate in tricking my ex to agree to let me be her pimp. There would be a hidden camera, and microphone, and I would be able to show the whole world what a dirty little whore she was. Really ruin the bitch.
WTF?! I had cooked up the entire diabolical scheme over the course of approx. 20 minutes of walking without even realizing what I was doing.
I guess that I AM the sort to hold a grudge over a long period of time, after all....
At last, I arrived at Vincente's. The only other person sitting at the bar was an old man sipping on a bottle of Bud. He was only communicating in 'surly-grunt' and was, apparently, on his first bottle.
I was sipping a large bottle of 'Yellow Snow IPA' and the reasonably high alcohol content of the stuff was soothing warmth in me belly. Once my slice arrived the final stitch of that little pocket of heaven had been sewn: Joy!
About halfway through my slice the old man -hunched over on his bar-stool with the brim of his red ball cap coming down about halfway of his beaked nose- ordered his second beer.
"Do you want to start a tab, sir?" That's the little gal serving at the bar.
*grunt, grumble* A farmer? A veteran of the Korean War?
He was a leathery old fucker with simple clothes and beady eyes, and I didn't want to make contact with him or his. I hate being tried by the mean old men.
"Sir, that'll be five dollars unless you want to start a tab, and in that case I'll need a credit-card."
I knew what was going on. I'd tended bar before and I could tell when someone had no money and was trying to scam free beers. It was slowly dawning on her and I could tell that she was getting flustered. The other bartender was a big kid with a full sleeve of expensive ink (that's 'tattoos' for the un-initiated) on and I could tell that he had no fucking clue either.
Munch munch, on my delicious pizza and I didn't say a word. The right thing for them to have done at that point would've been to snatch away his unfinished second beer and politely ask the old grump to leave.
Meanwhile, the evening dinner crowd was trickling in and the big fella with the ink was idiotically helping those ones out instead of doing the manly thing and taking over with the surly old grunter. He had one fist around the empty bottle and the other wrapped around the new bottle.
"Sir, I cannot serve you if you don't have any money," she was pleading at that point. It was kind of sad. The old grunter was fumbling around with an old leather wallet with contrived difficulty and, predictably, the only thing in his wallet was his food-stamp card. I was trying not to grin at the two young bartenders for I had applied for their jobs and been rejected a coupla times; to me it was some kind of twisted poetic justice...
"Sir, I can't serve you if you don't have any money. Do you have five dollars?"
He grunted unintelligibly and, finally, the girl snagged the unfinished bottle from him.
"It's time for you to leave, sir."
He did.
The inked bartender informed us that the same old man was in there the year before and that he'd pulled the same stunt then. And(!) he'd been intelligible, calling the fella a "fucking punk," and he'd even tried to steal their tip-jar.
It happens all the time in this town. I settled up and made my way home.