22 September 2012
Steepleton Friday Night
Went to the the Wet Spot for our Friday meal. Place turns a lot of staff over so I keep getting a giggle when I am asked my name so they can call me when our table is ready.
We did not have to wait long. Good fucking thing too. I needed a beer.
"Beer for two."
Neither Sonja or I were real hungry. All we really needed was a couple drinks and some place other than our own couch to sit for a spell. Sonja ordered a big margarita, I had been thinking about wheat beer all fucking day.
After a minute our waitress returned to tell me, "We're all out of the beer you ordered. All we have is lager and ale."
The look on my face got my waitress instantly concerned. I probably looked like Stephen Harper looks when he has not given something away to fucking China by 10:00 AM.
"Ale will be fine," I told her. It was too.
We usually avoid the Wet Spot on Fridays. When we go there it is just about always during the week. There was not a bar in town that noisy last night. Tables of women, families and teenagers on dates mostly. Sonja and I may have been the oldest people there. That is going to happen more and more I guess.
The owner of the Wet Spot is a well known Dope City man. Owns the east end junior hockey team and all sorts of other shit. Has the exterior and interior, from what I have heard, of a sawmill owner. The sort of motherfucker you want to punch in the fucking head.
"I'm not finishing mine," Sonja said as she pushed her plate to the side and set her third margarita in its place. She is watching her figure. As am I. I pushed my half finished meal to the side as well and set what I had hoped would be a wheat beer between my partner and myself. We both know, what with winter coming and all, we both find it harder to fit in our jeans as the days get shorter and the NHL lockout gets longer.
The Hammer was waiting for us when we got home. Waiting for us and her Hammer bag.