Things were going along just swimmingly until a moment ago. First, you have to understand that I am at the end of the bar. Four barstools are all mine. My computer is plugged in. There was NO ONE else at the bar. I had just begun to write when 3 very large, very loud, very talkative women walk through the door. Please remember that I have been ALONE at the bar. There's about 30 feet of bar. I am at one end. Where do these quackers decide to sit? Where else would they sit? Where else could they possibly sit? You know. Of course, you do. They take up the three seats immediately next to me. What is wrong with them? Maybe they're blind. Wait a second. Let me check. I stick my tongue out. She sticks her's out. Not blind. O Jesus, another one just walked in AND WITH A BABY. Shoot me now. Just get it over with. "Dear St. Jude, patron saint of hopeless cases, I realize we haven't been in touch for a while. Right, since that last little episode with the dent in the police car. You handled that sooo beautifully. Nice touch with the old lady backing up at the same time and, really, it could have been her fault...in a parallel universe. So here I am again, pleading with you for another miracle. The baby could do some projectile vomiting. Everyone (not me) gets hit with a lovely shade of green. (I can dream, can't I?)"
Wait. Something's happening. One of them is saying something about her back. It's been bothering her for some time now. They're all teachers. Now they're all complaining about standing so long in the classroom. Everybody's back hurts. I mention that my back hurts as well and these barstools offer absolutely no support. No support at all. Killing me. Backs killing all of us now. I tell Pedro, the bartender, that we all need a table. The stools are killing us. Five minutes pass.
Why am I sitting at a table with a group of school teachers and a baby?