A Happy Hour | a short story.
January 20, 2012 § 1 Comment
Taylor was out of town this week so I treated myself to a happy hour
or two in his absence. On Wednesday, I left the house where I’d been tutoring at about 5:30 and booked it into downtown in hopes of arriving at Eddie V’s with a good chunk of happy hour still remaining. I navigated the traffic and tight streets and by 6:00 found a decent spot for The Behemoth Tahoe I was piloting with deft skill and speed. Satisfied with the ample amount of remaining happy hour time in which I had to luxuriate, I jumped from Bruiser (The Behemoth) to pay the meter. To discover I had no wallet.
What do you do? What do I do? I’m not meeting someone who can cover me and let me pay them back. I’m not calling someone to forge their way into downtown at 6pm to deliver my wallet to me.
I laugh at myself. And remount Bruiser my trusty steed. Take me home, Bruiser. Let us together leave downtown at 6pm with everyone else in the greater Austin area. Let us camp in rows alongside our idling friends with the sunset in our eyes. We shall not look at the clock nor into the rear view mirror as the minutes of happy hour slip slowly away from our (growing ever more) hungry grasp and the house of warm bread, tuna tartar and $5 wine fades off beyond the river. We were so close. This is not a happy hour.
Meanwhile, back at home, my wallet, snugly sequestered in my teaching tote, was oblivious to the strength of my desire to summon it with supernatural enchantments. Accio, wallet! I weighed my options and made a mental pro-con list.
Option A: Go home in traffic. Eat somewhere else.
Option B: Go home in traffic. Go back to Eddie V’s. Miss happy hour. Enjoy the ambiance and a $30 dinner
Option C: Go home in traffic. Go back to Eddie V’s. Miraculously not miss happy hour. Enjoy the ambiance and an $18 dinner
Option D: Enter Eddie V’s sans-wallet. Hope to not get carded. Hope to pay for drinks, dinner and parking by
flashing bosoms sweet talking the bartender or removing my wedding ring and flirting with the gentlemen rationally explaining the situation shredding my clothes and begging on the corner of 5th street.
See, I had to eat dinner, that was conclusive, but for dinner I wanted warm bread, half-price tuna, $5 wine, a jazz band, dim lights and my Nook. (I’m reading My Name is Mary Sutter butthatsirrelevantrightnow) It was determined that if I were to go home, retrieve the wayward wallet and head right back to Eddie V’s, really the worst case scenario would be that I would miss happy hour. If I were to go home, retrieve said wallet and go somewhere else I would waste time, hungry time, trying to both decide where to go and wishing it were Eddie V’s. I decided to count my losses. I will toss out the high-quality-dinner-for-low-quantity-dough triumph of this whole experience, and I will go back. I’m looking at you, wallet.
6:15. Traffic going home was miraculously not horrible. I made excellent time. Small buds of hope blossom. There is faint glimmer of possibility. Wafting wafting is smell of victory over wayward wallet.
6:17. I rejoined Bruiser and we retraced our steps.
6:35. Friends. I made it back for happy hour. I scored an excellent parking spot, well located and free after 6pm. I entered the bar, or rather, ahem, the “V Lounge,” found a chair (on the pro list of flying solo), and subsequently thoroughly enjoyed my bargain dining experience in a lovely ambiance. It was everything I hoped and dreamed it would be and was made even more lovely by the sweet knowledge that, despite the unfavorable odds, I still been triumphant in securing a high quality dinner for low quantity dough.
Then it got better. They charged me full price for my wine and when I said something about it, (you better bet your britches I said something about it; I didn’t pilot Bruiser the Behemoth like a bat out of hell to get charged full price.) the bartender took one of the glasses off the bill.
That wayward wallet sallied out of le “V Lounge” a mere $15 lighter.