Regardless: Happy Thanksgiving to all of you!
FEAST
OR FAMINE
Houston’s on
Thanksgiving Eve. I was sure the place
would be empty – but, on the contrary, it appeared as if everyone coming into
town had found his or her way to the corner of Miracle Mile and Ponce de Leon. No ropes and no lines notwithstanding, I had
had to wait… although not for long. I’m a regular, after all.
Positioning myself
at one of the north corners of the bar, I waited for some young women to finish
their drinks. Before too long, one of
them kindly offered me her seat. An
equally kindly bartender – who knows me, of course – asked me what I desired to
drink. For some reason, I decided on a
Cosmopolitan, instead of my usual champagne or pinot noir. One sip into it, and I realized I’d lost my
touch. A twelve-dollar blast of rocket
fuel. Several sips later, I began to
look around, for there was much to see.
A medium-short,
slightly portly fellow in a suit had been standing next to me for a short
time. A slightly taller, portly – and
much older – guy on the other side of the bar began to openly leer at two girls
sitting in front of him. Unbeknownst to
them, of course. These two managed to
cross each other’s paths at least once, and to exchange words. Were they commenting on the same ladies? They appeared to be bobbing up and down… like Thanksgiving turkeys. If it was going to be feast or famine this
night, these two appeared as if they were going to lose a bit of their plumpness.
Several other
likely looking candidates for the holiday table appeared ready and willing to
give their all… to no avail. Two married types positioned themselves next
to the two young women sitting next to me.
Not hiding their status, they nonetheless began to shamelessly flirt
with these two girls. You’re the easy
type (or something like that). You’re a
teacher (that one I can’t forget). On
and on went the bird closest to me. The
other one attempted to engage in a tête a tête with the other young lady.
By then, I had
quaffed the Cosmopolitan and decided on the vegetable plate for dinner. The tomatoes were exceptional: I devoured them with relish. Not too many people actually eat a full meal
at the bar on Wednesdays. The staff,
however, knows I’m there for a drink and some food. After all, they know me.
One of the gobblers
attempting to feast on the young prey next to me commented on my tomatoes. I think he really had his mind on getting
someone else’s. Before I had finished my
plate, the young ladies had had enough.
One of them – whose black and white sweater I had praised earlier on –
very politely said goodbye. To me.
I wonder if the
turkeys finally got their fill today.
All I got was a slightly headachy hangover. No more Cosmopolitans for me: I wonder how Carrie, Samantha, Charlotte, and
Miranda can do it. It’s back to
seven-dollar champagne.
And no turkey – of
any kind – this Thanksgiving. I’ll
survive.
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