I walked into the Diamond Bar and saw a man on stage grinding in a blue thong. Hell yes, I thought, and noticed all the men sitting at the bar. The shift in prospects didn't phase me like it normally would; I had almost filled my quota for the night. I grabbed a stool between Greek and God and looked for the bartender. Usually there's a hot young thing behind the bar in a joint like this, but there was a man in short pants and suspenders stocking the coolers. When he opened his mouth, he sounded like a Goodwill employee.
“What are ye having?”
“Give me a martini,” I stated as I turned to watch the man on stage.
I assumed the bartender was getting my drink, but I heard “What kind?”
“What kind a' Mertini?” he asked.
I didn't have time for casual questions, I was still on the clock. “Listen, what's your name?”
“Evil Editor. Call me EE.” He didn't so much as blink.
“Okay, EE, I want the kind you drink, obviously. Give me an olive, I guess.”
I watched the guy on stage slither some more, but the bartender wasn't finished. “We got Appletinis, Pomtinis, you name it. You should know yer Mertinis.”
He wandered off and I was immediately annoyed. On the bar back, I saw a small guide. The cover read 'The Progress of Mixology', written by Evil Editor.
I was on to this guy now. I had no room in my life for another jerk who thought he was special. When he brought my drink, I was past caring about the intricacies of the Martini. “See? Nice and easy. A damn vodka with an olive. All that fancy talk doesn't mean you know shit.”
“I know yer a hooker sittin' between two gay guys who doesn't know jack about Mertinis,” he said.
--Aimee K. Maher