"Meet us at Margarita Mamas," squealed the already drunk blonde on Brad's phone. "I've never been, you?" I asked Brad, who responded with a shrug.
East Enders rarely roam from our native habitat, fearing the all-white polo-clad suburbanites that descend on Station Square every weekend. Standing awkwardly on the dancefloor, Miller Light in hand, Bethel Park jostles with 55+ clones to get as close as possible to the lone 3 girl dance-party or a cluster of bachelorette revellers. He'll try to pick up ANY scantly clad girl, sneak her into his parent's house, and hopefully cop a feel on the family room couch before he prematurely ejaculates in his smiley-face boxers. The effect... Margarita Mamas offers bad music, a no-dance dance floor, and Steelers chants about every 4-6 minutes.
I walked into the bar, pissed that I had already blown $8 to park and $5 in cover. "Two Beefeaters and Tonic," I say to the greased-up tough-guy bartender. Guy got a snout like a pelican, but he is clearly the stud in this corral of smack-offs. He grabs two plastic cups and fill them to the brim with thoroughly crushed ice. I start waving frantically... Christ, a booze-free evening at this dump would be a fate worse than death. He makes eye contact, pretends he didn't, and spritzes the glass with gin.
"There's too much ice. I didn't want so much ice."
"You shoudda said sumthin."
"I did. I was waving my arms, and you saw me. There's too much ice."
He gives an incredulous look of disbelief. What a challenge! Like I asked him to strain the Artic Shelf from the sea with a plastic colander. After a series of theatrical Italian hand gestures, 'whaddaya whaddaya,' the ice is out and 1/2 a drink remains in the glass. My anticipation that the meathead would fill the balance with booze was apparently mistaken. "$10.00," he says.
I threw a $10, grabbed my drink and walked away. "Don't f**king come back," tuff-guy yells. Apparently, he expected a tip for his comic indignance. I smirk.
"Don't worry about it."