Date: Wed, 12 Jan 2000 21:45:00 -0800 (PST)
From: K. S. <atryptych@yahoo.com>
Subject: drinking-at-sullivan's-grill-2

[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)