Happy Hour

A cop, a pickpocket, and a rodeo clown walked into a bar. Seriously. One after the other, though they didn’t look to be together. The bar was starting to get crowded, happy hour and all. And from where I sat at the bar, smack dab in the middle so I couldn’t be ignored, these three characters aroused much of my suspicion. My reflection in the big mirror behind the bar was failing to keep my attention, though at this point my eyes were doing some rather interesting things. So in come the three amigos, who aren’t really amigos at all, but who I’ve grouped as such for the purposes of this little narrative here. And they aren’t wearing signs around their necks identifying them or anything, but I think I know a cop, a pickpocket, or a rodeo clown when I see one. First, the cop. This guy was easy to identify. He was short, and we’re talking like 5’4” here. Yet he walked with a swagger that didn’t match his stature. He strutted in like he owned the place, in his unnecessarily tight black t-shirt and matching black jeans. Not a fan of this guy, so of course he came and sat right next to me at the bar. I scooted my barstool over a bit, no need to rub shoulders with his kind, and turned a little in the other direction. I couldn’t turn too far though; I had to keep my eye on the pickpocket, or old Sketchy McGee as I named him. I didn’t dare turn my back to this guy. He had on a fleece jacket in 65-degree weather and was sporting it bravely with baggy shorts and flip-flops. Now it may not be common knowledge, but truer words I’ve never found to live by than these: never trust a man in flip-flops. Plus his hair was gelled, another black mark on his character, and he was looking around the bar all shifty eyed. Now in fairness, I too may have had some shifty eyes at this point, but my hair was all disheveled, and my toes were hidden from public view. I moved my wallet to my front pocket, I couldn’t be sure when Sketchy McGee would strike, but I knew it would be fast, accurate, and I would be the one and only target. Third came Bubba, the rodeo clown, he had the perfect face for it. He was a skinny guy, perfect build for hightailing it around the rodeo ring with a big bad bull hot on one’s heels. Plus he was wearing overalls, the rodeo cowboy’s leisure wear of choice. His boots had paint on them, which could only means one thing; he had borrowed them from his house painting brother due to the fact that he couldn’t afford his own on his meager rodeo salary. And here he was at my bar to drown his sorrows in a mug of my favorite ale. God help him if he happened to drink the last Pabst. That tallboy had my name etched into it. He approached the bar and ordered a Miller High Life. Ah, the champagne of beers, a fine choice my overalled friend, especially since you stayed away from my Pabst. Another for me. I wave for the barkeep and reach for my wallet. My back pocket is empty! Damn, I’ve been foiled by that shifty pickpocket, who is now conveniently nowhere to be found. I shake my head, wave the bartender back to his other pressing duties, lay my head down on the bar and take a nap. It’ll be dark when I wake up.