by Robin Miller
There is a bar on Wilkens Avenue in Southwest Baltimore that has
one customer and one bartender in it on a Wednesday afternoon. The two men
are sipping beer and discussing the decline of the Orioles when a young
woman enters.
She stands uncertainly for a moment, perhaps allowing her eyes to
adjust to the bar’s dim lighting, then wanders over to where the single
patron sits and plops herself down on a stool next to him.
“Would you buy me a beer?” she asks. “Draft is fine.”
The man says, “Sure,” turns to the bartender and says, “Give her a
beer on me. What the hell.”
The beer, National Bohemian in a can–there is no draft
available–costs $1. The man pays. The woman opens the can herself and
drinks almost half of it at once. She fixes her eyes on the man and asks,
“Would you like a date?”
“Hey,” the bartender says. “You can’t do that in here. I don’t
chase you girls off when you’re out front, but you can’t come in here and
hustle the customers.”
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