I Have The Bartender's Clothes But No Bartender

Stuck in Denver with no place to go (Please See Exhibit A and Exhibit B for further explanation) and out of luck for the moment I opt for comfort food.  I come from Aspen, the love child that was born when Sodom and Gomorra went out drinking with the Land of Milk and Honey and just happened to have an unprotected good time.  In other words, because I spend my life in a  hedonistic winter playground for adults, my comfort food is anything that is not celebrated by Bon Appetite or Food and Wine, is not frequented by Paris Hilton or Kate Hudson and is decidedly not creative or progressive.  Comfort food is mainstream America at its finest.  I can order $2.95 tasters and cheap wine in Cherry Creek (an upscale enclave in Denver populated by hipster yuppies, desperate housewives and grey flannel suite wearing execs – all with crunchy-hippie yearnings), just as easily as I can in Cleveland.

I belly up to the bar and order a satisfyingly cheap glass of Zig Zag Zin and a basil, tomato and goat cheese pizza.  And then it commences.  My obsessive compulsive, psychoanalysis of my fellow Brio patrons.  There are the requisite business travelers.  A 30-something woman in a power suit who looks like she over-compensates for being a woman in Corporate America by being a raging bitch.  There’s a member of the grey flannel mafia hunched over a scotch on the rocks and studying the melting ice cubes in his highball glass.  There’s the brassy-haired blond behind the bar who probably escaped from St. Louis as soon as she got the chance.  And then there’s the bar clown.  Every bar has one.  He was the loveable funny guy in high school and has never really grown up.  His apartment likely has Chili Peppers posters and remote control cars strewn around despite the fact that he’s old enough to have a big-boy job and an apartment that is more Pottery Barn than Kappa Sig; or at least responsibilities greater than showing up to the bar in time for his 4 PM shift.  I’m intrigued by him though and throw him a wry smile.

He and the brassy blond and debating who gets to leave early on account of the snow.  They decide to Rock Paper Scissors for it.

“I can beat anyone in this bar in Rock Paper Scissors,” the clown puffs out his chest.

“That’s a bold statement.”   This seems to offend him.

“Well then let’s go kiddo.”

I throw paper.  I always throw paper first.  It’s easy.  Just a flat hand stretched out in front.  My paper covers his rock.

“All right it was just luck.  Let’s go best two out of three.”

My scissors beat his paper.  Sweet victory.

Less than 24 hours later, Mr. Rock-Paper-Scissor’s clothes would be in my car.  Alone.  Without their rightful owner.  How did he get away with no clothes you might ask?  Well the night didn’t end up like that.   What kind of girl do you take me for?  So how did I end up with three brand new shirts from Brooks Brother, a Nordstrom bag full of socks and two news ties of unknown designer origin?  Some things in life are just a mystery.

I returned said bag to the hostess stand with a polite note reading, “So sorry I had to leave quickly last night.  Thanks for a great evening!  Good luck in all future endeavors.  (970) 319-4810.  Kate.”   Four hours later I was almost back to Aspen and my phone rang.  Little did I know I had recruited a stage five clinger.  He would proceed to call me daily for the next three weeks.  He didn't stop until i threatened a restraining order.  Well actually that's not true.  But it would have been funny if it was, huh?

Sleeping In My Car Behind The Denver Country Club

Denver.  March 2010.  A snowstorm has crippled my evening plans and left me momentarily friendless, homeless and without plans.  I do what any good Midwesterner would do and head to a comfortingly nondescript, mediocre chain restaurant.

My new friends Dane and Britney spend the next twenty minutes or so trading quips and anecdotes with me about what it means to grow up Midwestern and bond about how wonderful Colorado is.  They are both born and raised in the great state of Ohio as well.  Just like in the movies.  Whenever someone has moved from somewhere terrible to somewhere wonderful, they always come from Ohio.  Food for thought.  I’m already having a mild panic attack about leaving my precious mountains behind.  Dane, the bartender turns out to be every bit his character.  He’s always on point and ready with a witty quip.  He never fails to act ten years less than his likely age.  He is adamant that he will never get married, will never grow up and will remain an atheist until the day he dies. 

This Peter Pan is of the species manus childus, a species with whom I have become intimately acquainted in the mountains.  The age of this man-child is accurately determined only through the application of a complex calculation.

He can be spotted in his natural habitat at the local watering hole (having fun without a beer in hand is tough) chatting up girls at least ten years younger than he is.  They laugh airily at his constant stand-up routine.  Their voices click like so many pairs of high heels on tile and he love every minute of the attention.  He is not usually ganfully employed and is supported by his enabling parents.  He has many stripes, but in the mountains he is usually identifiable by his requisite Careharts, sweatshirt (or T-shirt) from his favorite microbrewery and a college baseball hat.  He always drinks cheap beer and shoots tequila or whiskey.  He loves his Buckeyes, his Buffs, his Cornhuskers or his Bulldogs.  He loves girls but hates girlfriends that last longer than two weeks.  Should one desire to entice this reckless species be a beer swigging, pony-tailed, All American sweetheart who laughs at his jokes and avoids serious conversation.  To avoid this potentially dangerous species look no further than the kryptonite of, “I love you,” or “Let’s talk about our future together.”

“You wanna grab a drink?  I’m getting cut.”

I decide I’ve got nothing better to do.

“Sure.”

A half bottle of Hornitos cheap tequila, several beers and a basket of fries later it’s Cinderella time.  I have this bad habit of packing up and leaving as soon as a place, person or situation is no longer fun.  In college, this used to worry my friends when, come 1 AM, Kate decided to disappear into the night unannounced and without warning.  They used to look high and low for me only to find me fast asleep in my bed, pajamas on and makeup off. 

I sneak into my car and realize I have no place to stay.  Shit.  I look at the seat next to me.  Dane’s bag sits there calmly mocking me.  Shit.  “Sucker,” it says.  “You’ve got a strange man’s clothes and no bed to sleep in.  Watcha gonna go now?”

I proceed to the eternal Plan B of the technologically crippled, instant communication dependent, Generation Now.  The mass text.  I text my friends who are stuck in the mountains, I text this guy I hooked up with in college and who might, maybe still live in Denver.  I text my ex-boyfriend looking for his brother’s number.  I text my best friend in Athens, Ohio because it is totally logical that she could help in two thousands miles away.  Nothing. 

I ring my high school girlfriend’s boyfriend’s buzzer ten thousand times.  Nothing.  I am left with no choice.  I park my car on a quiet street behind the bastion of social exclusivity and elitism that is the Denver County Club (my friend who works for a Pro-Israel lobby informs me that they don’t even let Jews in).  I unroll my red sleeping bag that my Mom won at a company party when she worked for Coca Cola.  In 1983.  I pull the hood of my down hoodie over my head.  I hunker down.  I’m too tired to care about moving my shit or putting my back seats down so I curl up on the tiny half of the backseat not covered in snowshoes, hiking shoes, ski poles, running shorts, yoga pants, gloves, helmets hats and other assorted sundries of mountain life.  I’ve got a yoga mat for a pillow, a pair of skis in my ass and a pile of shoes and clothes at my feet.  The great blizzard of 2010 quickly blankets my car in eight inches of heavy wet snow.  The elitists will have no idea that I am passed out on their quiet street, in their fancy neighborhood come morning.