I charge forward with focus and tenacity, solving problems for myself and others.
Tonight’s problem I will solve in a bar.
With my jacket slung over my arm, I head into Gin Joint, scanning the swank place for my friends. I spot Harper draped on a purple couch, chatting with her husband, Nick, and when I catch his eye, I signal that I’ll join them shortly. He flips me the bird. I flip him the bird back, and all is well.
I grab a spot at the end of the bar, searching for the woman I came to see. I need to feel her out first. See what kind of mood she’s in.
She’s mixing a martini for a guy with hair slicked back with so much product, it looks like it’s cracking. I’ve written a number of blogs with grooming tips that could help him out. Maybe start with Gel—more is not your friend.
I scan the chalkboard for the signature drinks. Among the gin specials are Game Plan, Last Word, Devil’s Teeth, Hush Money, and That One Time.
A brunette with a Great Gatsby hairstyle—shoulder-length with one of those 1920s headbands—joins Truly behind the bar, taking over the martini.
The woman I came to see marches over to me, plunks down a napkin, then tips her chin toward the Daisy Buchanan look-alike. “Gabriella will get the next few customers, since I suspect you deserve the owner’s attention.”
“I like to think I always do.”
“What can I get for you? Because you look like someone just told you that you can’t have bacon for breakfast.”
I shoot her a have you gone mad look. “Bacon for breakfast? I hope that’s not what you think I eat.”
She parks her hands on the bar. “What do you have for breakfast?”
“Eggs and soldiers.”
Her brow furrows. “What is that?”
I sigh heavily, dropping my forehead to the counter. “Why, oh why, Lord, am I still explaining British references after all these years?”
“I know the basics. Chips, fish, tea, blah, blah, blah.”
I look up, shaking my head sadly. “What am I going to do with you? You need a full and proper education in English food. The soldiers are pieces of toast you dip into the egg, soft-boiled and perched in a snazzy egg cup.”
“Ah. Here we call that, wait for it, toast.”
“Yes, eggs and toast. We’re simply more creative across the pond. But I never have bacon.”
She holds up her hand to high-five. “Welcome to the club of bacon haters.”
“Wait. You have a club?” I high-five back, enjoying the contact more than I thought possible with high fives. But she does have great hands. They did wondrous things to my dick one night.
Stop.
Just stop that right now, dirty brain.
“Of course we have a club. We have meetings and bylaws too.”
“Sign me up, then.”
“We have much work to do, comrade. And work requires a drink. I’m getting the vibe that you’re in the mood for one of my specials—a little gin, a couple cucumbers, and the best part? My homemade red-pepper laced lemonade.” Her gaze sweeps to the chalkboard sign. “Otherwise known as That One Time. Can I interest you?”
“You can very much interest me in That One Time.”
She spins around, grabs a glass, and starts mixing. I settle in on the black metal stool, enjoying the view.
Women like her pouring drinks—it’s one of my favorite sights. Right next to women in bikinis lazing in the sun and women sliding on fishnet stockings and then slipping into heels. Wait, that’s not fair to the image of women in white lace. That makes the list too.
She sets the glass in front of me, and I taste the concoction, savoring the sweet start and the fiery finish. “Beautiful. Now, tell me, why was I in the mood for That One Time?”
She eyes me up and down, with a cool and confident gaze. “Same way I could tell my friend Presley needed one when she was here a few minutes ago. Because she clearly had had a shit day at work, and things were not going her way. And it sure looks like things didn’t go your way tonight.”
“And how exactly can you tell?” I ask since I’m not the kind of guy who wears his heart on his sleeve.
Truly twirls her finger in a circle at me. “I can tell because you’re in your tux, Nora’s not here, and you have this furrow in your brow that says all is not perfect in Jason Land.”
She excuses herself to saunter to the end of the bar to help Gabriella for a moment, and I glance down at my tux then figuratively side-eye the furrow in my brow. Am I more transparent than I thought, giving off telltale signs of frustration? Well, that’s unacceptable. I'm practical, I’m fun, but I’m not emotional. I’ve seen where emotions can lead a man, and now I’m focused and have been since Claire Wedgewood, the woman I thought I was going to marry once upon a time, decided that waiting around didn’t fit in her schedule.
Then again, she was ridiculously good at putting herself first, so do what you know and all that.
With Truly tending to orders, I take my phone from my pocket and check my e-mail.
There’s a new one from Ryder Lockhart, a relationship and advice guru superstar.
Can you do another guest appearance on my show this week? We have a segment coming up on dos and don’ts for modern guys in business. Good fit for you. Think of some of your best tips and be ready to be pithy and witty.
Hell, yes. I am overflowing with pith and wit just waiting for me to share. I write back faster than a Bugatti, letting Ryder know I’ll be there.
When Truly swings by again, I put the phone away and answer her unasked question—what went wrong tonight. “If you must know, the date ended terribly with Nora.”
