Tales Of A Drama Queen

“It’s not a theory,” Teddy bear says as they move to the large booth in the corner.

“Should I see if they want drinks?” I ask Monty, to cover my embarrassment about the stale Fritos.

“Wait ’til others show up,” he tells me. “Or they’ll come to the bar.”

“I know stale, baby, and these are not stale.” Teddy bear’s voice easily carries to the bar. “These are fresh. Factory fresh.”

“Fresh from the factory that makes stale Fritos.”

The teddy bear gets louder. “They’re not stale!” He grabs a handful, shoves them in his mouth.

The redhead cringes. “Okay, okay. Because you ate them, that proves they’re not stale.”

“Actually, they are stale,” I say, from across the room. “Monty and I both thought so. Three to one. Stale.”

Teddy bear shakes his head, but can’t speak for all the chewing he’s doing.

“Wisdom, beauty and common sense,” the redhead says, indicating Monty, me and himself in turn. “All say they’re stale. Doesn’t that prove it?”

I think: I’m beauty!

The teddy bear manages to swallow; beaten, but unbowed. “How long you think stale Fritos stay in your colon?”

“Jesus, Neil.”

“Not as long as maraschino cherries,” Neil says. “But way longer than beef jerky.”

The redhead gives me a look, and smiles. And red hair isn’t that bad, actually. Plenty of attractive men have red hair. Howdy Doody. Carrot Top. I return the smile, and the door opens again.

Three men and a woman enter and head for the booth with Neil and the redhead. I watch as they sit, wondering if I should wait on them. What would Maya do? Will they want margaritas?

“Don’t worry,” Monty says. “One of them will come to the bar.”

And as if summoned, the redhead is here.

“Two IPAs,” he says, and I even know an IPA is a kind of beer. “And two Newcastle Browns.”

“Great!” I say, dripping with relief that I haven’t been asked to make a Grateful Dead, Hold the Jerry, or something.

“And a Manhattan and a Cosmopolitan.”

“A Manhattan?” I grab a hank of hair and tug, keeping the smile pasted on my face. “I love Manhattans. Big Manhattan drinker.”

His gray eyes crinkle. They clash with his hair. “If you don’t know how to make a Manhattan, that’s okay. I’ll just have—”

“Of course I know! I mean, what kind of bartender doesn’t know how to make a Manhattan?” I’ve never heard of a Manhattan. “You want that…on the rocks?”

“On the rocks, yeah.” He looks suspicious. “Tell me—what, exactly, do you put in your Manhattans?”

“Liquor. The hard stuff.”

He smiles, and looks at me, and looks like he likes looking. And I like that he looks like he likes looking, and I hope that’s what I look like.

I realize he just asked something that I didn’t hear over the sound of my ovaries chiming like eager little bells. “The what?”

“The primary liquor. The backbone of the drink. The Broadway of the Manhattan.”

“Um… Gin?”

He starts to shake his head no.

“Right! That’s a Chicago. I meant vodka.” I get the look again and continue: “Vodka is in the Brooklyn. You sure you don’t want a Brooklyn?”

The teddy bear interrupts with a bellow about Texas grapefruit being better than any other grapefruit, and the redhead says, “Maybe you should give me the beers first. Pacify the natives.”

“Two IPAs and two Nukey Browns.” The Newcastles are on tap, and I overpour one, but remember in the nick of time not to clean the drippage with my tongue. Though that’s gotta be a great way to get men interested. The IPAs are in bottles—thank the God of beer—and I plop them down.

“I’ve changed my mind,” he says. “I think I’ll have a Cosmopolitan, too.”

“Two Cosmopolitans—coming right up.”

“And, of course, a Cosmopolitan has…”

“Vodka,” I say, because I actually know, and wave airily. “And the rest.”

He sort of cocks his head, grins and returns to the booth with the beers.

As soon as his back is turned, I lunge at Monty. “How do you make a Cosmo?”

“No idea. They’re after my time. But a Manhattan is bourbon, bitters and sweet vermouth.”

“Monty! You could have told me!”

“Don’t look now,” he says. He excuses himself and heads for the bathroom, and Redhead is at the bar again.

“Problem with the beer?” I ask.

He smiles. “Just waiting for the Cosmos.”

“Won’t be a second.” I reach for the vodka—and there are six bottles, all different. I grab the closest, aware that Redhead is watching me and I’ve never mixed a drink other than Kahlua and milk in my life. I ease two martini glasses from the rack. So. Vodka, check. Martini glasses, check. And I’m stymied. “You know what?” I tell Redhead. “Why don’t you sit down, and I’ll bring them to your table?”

“That’s all right.”

“No, really.”

“I don’t mind,” he says. “I like it here.”

“No, really.” I smile, baring my teeth.