Just when I think we’ve run out of adventures, another pops up to astound and amaze. The scene: Old Town Scottsdale. The players: Self and Sorority Sister. Sorority Sister’s husband went home after dinner like husbands are known to do in the presence of girlfriends.
“Let’s have an after-dinner drink,” suggests Sorority Sister.
“I’m game.”
For the record we are neither stumbly nor unruly. For us, especially, we are rather quiet.
We take a seat at a fairly busy establishment named after a village at the end of Long Island. If that doesn’t give it away, here’s a clue. It’s one of those beachy New England places where they like to brag about money and class. Last Saturday night, not so much.
Baby Boy Bartender approaches. One of those boys who’s cute, but not nearly as cute as he thinks he is. And he’s short. He looks us up and down and not in the appreciative way. More snotty. Should I feel insulted?
“An espresso martini, please,” say I.
“Say again?” says he.
Self-conscious of my speech I repeat, “espresso martini” and it comes out a little garbled. It’s my secret hell that others can’t understand me when I speak–my special cancer gift that keeps giving. Surprisingly, my speech improves with alcohol, most likely due to lack of inhibitions and relaxation of tongue and vocal chords. This will be important later. Trust me.
Sorority Sister orders a wine which he informs, not very nicely, they don’t have. She decides on an espresso martini as well.
The bar is fairly busy. It’s loud. There are people eating dinner, drinking, watching games. We are chatting. She lives far away and there is much to catch up on. It takes about 45 minutes to finish our cocktails. I only know this because I checked the time as we left the restaurant across the street.
It’s now around 8:45. Point being–we’re not kicking up our heels at four in the morning on a bender. I know the time because I am about to call an Uber. Unexpectedly.
Sorority Sister says to Baby Boy Bartender, “Can we get two more please?”
“No.”
We look at him and each other.
“I’m not going to serve you anymore.”
“Why not?”
“She,” he nods in my direction, “is slurring.”
“We are not driving,” says Sorority Sister. Baby Boy Bartender walks away. Evidently, this conversation is over. Meanwhile, a fourth martini tree, an establishment hallmark, sails by.
I call an Uber. She calls a Waymo. As I begin my walk of shame, she offers some words of wisdom to Baby Boy Bartender.
“Hey. She’s not slurring her words. She had cancer and three surgeries on her throat so her words don’t always come out right. Think about that.”
“Oh,” says the boy previously bravado-filled.
If you need a holiday gift, look around for the people who have your back and say a silent, Thank You Santa.
Oh, and a Middle Chicken, who upon hearing the story says, “That place is dead to us. No one from our family goes there ever again.” She’s the Mafia boss of the fam.
Enjoy your holiday. Pick a friendlier spot to celebrate.
The Duchess Diaries 