You can’t make this stuff up

Tonight Kathy and I went to the Cleveland Indians game downtown. The ballpark is only a few blocks from where we work, so we changed into our play clothes at the office and drove over there.

The first restaurant we wanted to go to was packed and no one looked like they were leaving any time soon, so we walked across the street to another one. There was no air conditioning, but the windows were open and there was a vacant booth, so we jumped in. All we wanted was some appetizers, figuring we’d get something else at the park during the game.

Some people think a hot dog at a baseball game is the ultimate treat, but at the Cleveland park, the hamburgers are so good, I usually wind up with one of those instead. But I digress.

Kathy asked me to go to the bar to get her a glass of wine. OK. Simple enough.

I walked up to a young woman working behind the bar and asked her for a glass of chardonnay. She was an attractive blondish twentysomething, wearing one of those skirts that has you wondering what holds it up, since it’s halfway down her hips. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. But I digress.

Blogger: “A glass of chardonnay, please.”

Ms. Skirt: “I’m sorry, we only have white wine.”

Blogger: “That will be fine.” No point in belaboring the obvious. She was wearing that skirt after all.

Ms. Skirt: “I have to go into the back to get it.” No need to apologize for leaving me. Women do that all the time.

Blogger: “OK.”

So the young lady disappears momentarily and returns carrying a heavy looking green glass container that doesn’t look quite right, but I can’t see the label. She struggles to open it until a manager comes by and saves her. Turns out she was trying to pop the cork on a bottle of champagne.

To be fair, it looked like a number of people were in training this night. I saw one young lady being instructed by a veteran server on the fine points of swiping a credit card through the machine. Other neophytes were dashing from table to table with drink orders. One of them inexplicably grabbed our check off our table and ran off with it. We looked at each other wondering if it was free chicken fingers night or something. She returned a few minutes later and set it down again saying, “I don’t know why I took that from you.” Now mind you, we had never seen that server before. The woman who was helping us was quite competent (tall, blond, too much make-up), but she had gone around the far side of the room to work.

So in the end Kathy wound up with a margarita in a plastic cup. Who says we don’t know how to have a good time?

Did the bar back get a tip? Well, she was almost wearing that skirt, so what do you think I did?