Sunday

On Sunday my usual end of the bar was occupied so I sat with the older regulars. There were two young guys and two middle aged guys sitting by the taps. The younger guys started to talk about their buddy Shawn. One of them left to get their little friend. Shawn turned out to be a garden gnome.

They were young, drunk and acting foolishly. I kept an ear on their conversation because they seemed like potential trouble; greater trouble than a five foot two bartender might like to handle.

A shot glass ended up getting broken and the one with the muscles decided that he would chew on some of the broken bits. He proved his manliness by spitting the glass into his hand and then dumped the pink spittle concoction onto the black granite bar.

They left after that.