They say opposites attract, and in college Kristina Vušković was my best friend.
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They say opposites attract, and in college Kristina Vušković was my best friend.
Kristina was from the former Yugoslavia, a double major in Math and Computer Science with a 4.0 average, and a member of the Phi Beta Kappa honor society.
I was a Writing major from Vermont, and a member of the Science Fiction Club.
One chilly night we headed out for a beer together, to this combination bar and pizza joint in the West Village. It was a quintessential establishment of its day. Walk in, and straight ahead was a long narrow space with a mahogany and brass bar with an ornate mirror, bar stools, and a black and white tiled floor.
To the left was an archway that opened into a windowed solarium space that jutted out over the sidewalk, windows that opened in the summer but were closed now against the cold. Small two-person tables were lined up along the glass.
The bar area and the solarium formed two outer sides of a raised square space in the middle. If you wanted to drink, you sat at the bar or in the solarium. If you wanted pizza, you went up three steps at the back of the bar or in the middle of the solarium and sat in a leather booth in the middle.
Kristina and I headed for the solarium and sat at a table against the glass, directly across from the stairs going up to the booths. Just about the time we'd settled in with our beers, in walked two couple from Central Casting.
The men were wearing matching tight black jeans, white muscle shirts, with their hair slicked back. One of them even had a box of cigarettes tucked up in the sleeve of his t-shirt.
The women had towering 80s hair – bleach blonde and teased a mile high – and they matched, too. One wore a short white frilly dress with black polka dots. The other one wore the exact same style of dress but it was white with black stripes instead of dots. They were obviously best friends, as they'd traded the accessory hair bows that came with the dresses. So the one in the striped dress was wearing the polka dot bow, the one in the polka dot dress was wearing the striped bow.
No mistaking the fact that these tough fellas had come to the Big City through the tunnel from New Jersey, and they were there to show off their women and show their women a good time.
They came in, went up the steps, and settled in a booth. Kristina and I watched their grand entrance without comment, turned to watch them go up to a booth, then went back to whatever we'd been talking about.
Out of nowhere, we heard PING TING TING TONG. We looked down on the floor: a penny. Kristina picked it up and put it on the table.
A few minutes later, TING TONG TING and another penny landed right on the table. We looked up, and we could see that the Jersey Girls were craning their necks around like geese. Whenever they thought someone wasn't paying attention, they pitched a penny.
Kristina and I didn’t say a word about it, just watched, then went right back to our conversation, not acknowledging it, just continuing to nurse our steins of beer and slowly stack one penny after another on the table, until we had a pretty big pile.
After a while, there was a pause, and then: CHING TING TEE TEE. The sound was different. We looked down. They’d run out of pennies and had started pitching ice chips from their sodas.
FINALLY, they got up to leave and started walking straight toward us, with the intention of walking down the stairs, past us, through the archway, and out the front door. Being polite gentlemen, the men walked behind and the women led the way.
Kristina and I stared at each other, looked down at our beers, looked at each other. I said, "You ready?" Kristina just nodded, and as they approached she began to count down. "Three. Two. One."
WHOOSH. With a flick of the wrist and a sweep of the arm, we launched the contents of our mugs. In perfect unison. A tidal wave of beer washed over the women, rolling up from their knees all the way over the bows on the tops of their hair, then cascading back down and forming mini-waterfalls over their long false eyelashes.
They erupted in howls of fury, screaming and spinning and looking for any way to retaliate. The closest thing to us was a small bussing table for the waiters, holding a full array of pizza condiments.
They grabbed the shakers of oregano! The hot red pepper flakes! The parmesan cheese! But shake as hard as they might, nothing was satisfying. How to compare that sifting SHAKE-SHAKE to the drenching storm we'd delivered!
I saw a fire light in one of the women's eyes as she spotted the Tabasco sauce. In that moment I could almost read her mind. She was going to pour hot sauce all over us and BURN US TO HELL.
But . . . you can't *pour* Tabasco sauce. She snatched the bottle up with a feral smile and started shaking it over our heads! The squeaky WIKKA WIKKA WIKKA and the few tiny drops that flew enraged her even more!
AAARRRRRRGGGGGHHHRRRRRRR
She was growling, and we were gasping for air, we were laughing so hard. But even as we collapsed out of our seats heaving and snorting, some part of my mind was aware of the white t-shirts and black pants coming up behind the women. My eyes registered the large muscles inside the white t-shirts and black pants, and a tiny corner of my soul thought, "So this is how we die."
Miracle of miracles, the men reached around and enfolded the women, grabbed them by the elbows, practically lifted them off the ground, and hustled them – still screaming and howling and clawing in our direction – out of the solarium, through the archway and out onto the street.
The door banged behind them, leaving complete silence throughout the establishment.
We stared at each other. A moment passed, while we assessed the damage. Beer and pizza toppings everywhere. We were covered in... FLAKES. We smelled faintly spicy.
A waiter strode purposefully through the archway, a serving platter held up at shoulder level with something on it. He stopped in front of our table, but before we could begin to apologize, or offer to clean up the mess, he held up a hand to silence us.
"THE BARTENDER," he announced loudly.
Oh great, we thought. This is where we get kicked out.
"The bartender," he said, "NOTICED that you . . . SPILLED your drinks."
"Uh--"
"THESE," he said, swinging the tray at his shoulder down to where we could see that it had two full beer steins on it, "are on the HOUSE."
And the entire place erupted into an extended round of applause.
As the waiter turned to march back to the bar, he swiveled on a heel, leaned back close to us and hissed, "They even stuck GUM to the MENUS!"
-
They say opposites attract, and in college Kristina Vušković was my best friend.
Kristina was from the former Yugoslavia, a double major in Math and Computer Science with a 4.0 average, and a member of the Phi Beta Kappa honor society.
I was a Writing major from Vermont, and a member of the Science Fiction Club.
One chilly night we headed out for a beer together, to this combination bar and pizza joint in the West Village. It was a quintessential establishment of its day. Walk in, and straight ahead was a long narrow space with a mahogany and brass bar with an ornate mirror, bar stools, and a black and white tiled floor.
To the left was an archway that opened into a windowed solarium space that jutted out over the sidewalk, windows that opened in the summer but were closed now against the cold. Small two-person tables were lined up along the glass.
The bar area and the solarium formed two outer sides of a raised square space in the middle. If you wanted to drink, you sat at the bar or in the solarium. If you wanted pizza, you went up three steps at the back of the bar or in the middle of the solarium and sat in a leather booth in the middle.
Kristina and I headed for the solarium and sat at a table against the glass, directly across from the stairs going up to the booths. Just about the time we'd settled in with our beers, in walked two couple from Central Casting.
The men were wearing matching tight black jeans, white muscle shirts, with their hair slicked back. One of them even had a box of cigarettes tucked up in the sleeve of his t-shirt.
The women had towering 80s hair – bleach blonde and teased a mile high – and they matched, too. One wore a short white frilly dress with black polka dots. The other one wore the exact same style of dress but it was white with black stripes instead of dots. They were obviously best friends, as they'd traded the accessory hair bows that came with the dresses. So the one in the striped dress was wearing the polka dot bow, the one in the polka dot dress was wearing the striped bow.
No mistaking the fact that these tough fellas had come to the Big City through the tunnel from New Jersey, and they were there to show off their women and show their women a good time.
They came in, went up the steps, and settled in a booth. Kristina and I watched their grand entrance without comment, turned to watch them go up to a booth, then went back to whatever we'd been talking about.
Out of nowhere, we heard PING TING TING TONG. We looked down on the floor: a penny. Kristina picked it up and put it on the table.
A few minutes later, TING TONG TING and another penny landed right on the table. We looked up, and we could see that the Jersey Girls were craning their necks around like geese. Whenever they thought someone wasn't paying attention, they pitched a penny.
Kristina and I didn’t say a word about it, just watched, then went right back to our conversation, not acknowledging it, just continuing to nurse our steins of beer and slowly stack one penny after another on the table, until we had a pretty big pile.
After a while, there was a pause, and then: CHING TING TEE TEE. The sound was different. We looked down. They’d run out of pennies and had started pitching ice chips from their sodas.
FINALLY, they got up to leave and started walking straight toward us, with the intention of walking down the stairs, past us, through the archway, and out the front door. Being polite gentlemen, the men walked behind and the women led the way.
Kristina and I stared at each other, looked down at our beers, looked at each other. I said, "You ready?" Kristina just nodded, and as they approached she began to count down. "Three. Two. One."
WHOOSH. With a flick of the wrist and a sweep of the arm, we launched the contents of our mugs. In perfect unison. A tidal wave of beer washed over the women, rolling up from their knees all the way over the bows on the tops of their hair, then cascading back down and forming mini-waterfalls over their long false eyelashes.
They erupted in howls of fury, screaming and spinning and looking for any way to retaliate. The closest thing to us was a small bussing table for the waiters, holding a full array of pizza condiments.
They grabbed the shakers of oregano! The hot red pepper flakes! The parmesan cheese! But shake as hard as they might, nothing was satisfying. How to compare that sifting SHAKE-SHAKE to the drenching storm we'd delivered!
I saw a fire light in one of the women's eyes as she spotted the Tabasco sauce. In that moment I could almost read her mind. She was going to pour hot sauce all over us and BURN US TO HELL.
But . . . you can't *pour* Tabasco sauce. She snatched the bottle up with a feral smile and started shaking it over our heads! The squeaky WIKKA WIKKA WIKKA and the few tiny drops that flew enraged her even more!
AAARRRRRRGGGGGHHHRRRRRRR
She was growling, and we were gasping for air, we were laughing so hard. But even as we collapsed out of our seats heaving and snorting, some part of my mind was aware of the white t-shirts and black pants coming up behind the women. My eyes registered the large muscles inside the white t-shirts and black pants, and a tiny corner of my soul thought, "So this is how we die."
Miracle of miracles, the men reached around and enfolded the women, grabbed them by the elbows, practically lifted them off the ground, and hustled them – still screaming and howling and clawing in our direction – out of the solarium, through the archway and out onto the street.
The door banged behind them, leaving complete silence throughout the establishment.
We stared at each other. A moment passed, while we assessed the damage. Beer and pizza toppings everywhere. We were covered in... FLAKES. We smelled faintly spicy.
A waiter strode purposefully through the archway, a serving platter held up at shoulder level with something on it. He stopped in front of our table, but before we could begin to apologize, or offer to clean up the mess, he held up a hand to silence us.
"THE BARTENDER," he announced loudly.
Oh great, we thought. This is where we get kicked out.
"The bartender," he said, "NOTICED that you . . . SPILLED your drinks."
"Uh--"
"THESE," he said, swinging the tray at his shoulder down to where we could see that it had two full beer steins on it, "are on the HOUSE."
And the entire place erupted into an extended round of applause.
As the waiter turned to march back to the bar, he swiveled on a heel, leaned back close to us and hissed, "They even stuck GUM to the MENUS!"
@anne
o. m. g. this is an awesome story with fabulous pacing!!!! -
@anne
o. m. g. this is an awesome story with fabulous pacing!!!![curtsies and blushes]
-
They say opposites attract, and in college Kristina Vušković was my best friend.
Kristina was from the former Yugoslavia, a double major in Math and Computer Science with a 4.0 average, and a member of the Phi Beta Kappa honor society.
I was a Writing major from Vermont, and a member of the Science Fiction Club.
One chilly night we headed out for a beer together, to this combination bar and pizza joint in the West Village. It was a quintessential establishment of its day. Walk in, and straight ahead was a long narrow space with a mahogany and brass bar with an ornate mirror, bar stools, and a black and white tiled floor.
To the left was an archway that opened into a windowed solarium space that jutted out over the sidewalk, windows that opened in the summer but were closed now against the cold. Small two-person tables were lined up along the glass.
The bar area and the solarium formed two outer sides of a raised square space in the middle. If you wanted to drink, you sat at the bar or in the solarium. If you wanted pizza, you went up three steps at the back of the bar or in the middle of the solarium and sat in a leather booth in the middle.
Kristina and I headed for the solarium and sat at a table against the glass, directly across from the stairs going up to the booths. Just about the time we'd settled in with our beers, in walked two couple from Central Casting.
The men were wearing matching tight black jeans, white muscle shirts, with their hair slicked back. One of them even had a box of cigarettes tucked up in the sleeve of his t-shirt.
The women had towering 80s hair – bleach blonde and teased a mile high – and they matched, too. One wore a short white frilly dress with black polka dots. The other one wore the exact same style of dress but it was white with black stripes instead of dots. They were obviously best friends, as they'd traded the accessory hair bows that came with the dresses. So the one in the striped dress was wearing the polka dot bow, the one in the polka dot dress was wearing the striped bow.
No mistaking the fact that these tough fellas had come to the Big City through the tunnel from New Jersey, and they were there to show off their women and show their women a good time.
They came in, went up the steps, and settled in a booth. Kristina and I watched their grand entrance without comment, turned to watch them go up to a booth, then went back to whatever we'd been talking about.
Out of nowhere, we heard PING TING TING TONG. We looked down on the floor: a penny. Kristina picked it up and put it on the table.
A few minutes later, TING TONG TING and another penny landed right on the table. We looked up, and we could see that the Jersey Girls were craning their necks around like geese. Whenever they thought someone wasn't paying attention, they pitched a penny.
Kristina and I didn’t say a word about it, just watched, then went right back to our conversation, not acknowledging it, just continuing to nurse our steins of beer and slowly stack one penny after another on the table, until we had a pretty big pile.
After a while, there was a pause, and then: CHING TING TEE TEE. The sound was different. We looked down. They’d run out of pennies and had started pitching ice chips from their sodas.
FINALLY, they got up to leave and started walking straight toward us, with the intention of walking down the stairs, past us, through the archway, and out the front door. Being polite gentlemen, the men walked behind and the women led the way.
Kristina and I stared at each other, looked down at our beers, looked at each other. I said, "You ready?" Kristina just nodded, and as they approached she began to count down. "Three. Two. One."
WHOOSH. With a flick of the wrist and a sweep of the arm, we launched the contents of our mugs. In perfect unison. A tidal wave of beer washed over the women, rolling up from their knees all the way over the bows on the tops of their hair, then cascading back down and forming mini-waterfalls over their long false eyelashes.
They erupted in howls of fury, screaming and spinning and looking for any way to retaliate. The closest thing to us was a small bussing table for the waiters, holding a full array of pizza condiments.
They grabbed the shakers of oregano! The hot red pepper flakes! The parmesan cheese! But shake as hard as they might, nothing was satisfying. How to compare that sifting SHAKE-SHAKE to the drenching storm we'd delivered!
I saw a fire light in one of the women's eyes as she spotted the Tabasco sauce. In that moment I could almost read her mind. She was going to pour hot sauce all over us and BURN US TO HELL.
But . . . you can't *pour* Tabasco sauce. She snatched the bottle up with a feral smile and started shaking it over our heads! The squeaky WIKKA WIKKA WIKKA and the few tiny drops that flew enraged her even more!
AAARRRRRRGGGGGHHHRRRRRRR
She was growling, and we were gasping for air, we were laughing so hard. But even as we collapsed out of our seats heaving and snorting, some part of my mind was aware of the white t-shirts and black pants coming up behind the women. My eyes registered the large muscles inside the white t-shirts and black pants, and a tiny corner of my soul thought, "So this is how we die."
Miracle of miracles, the men reached around and enfolded the women, grabbed them by the elbows, practically lifted them off the ground, and hustled them – still screaming and howling and clawing in our direction – out of the solarium, through the archway and out onto the street.
The door banged behind them, leaving complete silence throughout the establishment.
We stared at each other. A moment passed, while we assessed the damage. Beer and pizza toppings everywhere. We were covered in... FLAKES. We smelled faintly spicy.
A waiter strode purposefully through the archway, a serving platter held up at shoulder level with something on it. He stopped in front of our table, but before we could begin to apologize, or offer to clean up the mess, he held up a hand to silence us.
"THE BARTENDER," he announced loudly.
Oh great, we thought. This is where we get kicked out.
"The bartender," he said, "NOTICED that you . . . SPILLED your drinks."
"Uh--"
"THESE," he said, swinging the tray at his shoulder down to where we could see that it had two full beer steins on it, "are on the HOUSE."
And the entire place erupted into an extended round of applause.
As the waiter turned to march back to the bar, he swiveled on a heel, leaned back close to us and hissed, "They even stuck GUM to the MENUS!"
@anne I definitely deserve to smell like oregano though. I'll skip the Tabasco from your story.
Thanks for writing! It hits all the justice feels.
-
They say opposites attract, and in college Kristina Vušković was my best friend.
Kristina was from the former Yugoslavia, a double major in Math and Computer Science with a 4.0 average, and a member of the Phi Beta Kappa honor society.
I was a Writing major from Vermont, and a member of the Science Fiction Club.
One chilly night we headed out for a beer together, to this combination bar and pizza joint in the West Village. It was a quintessential establishment of its day. Walk in, and straight ahead was a long narrow space with a mahogany and brass bar with an ornate mirror, bar stools, and a black and white tiled floor.
To the left was an archway that opened into a windowed solarium space that jutted out over the sidewalk, windows that opened in the summer but were closed now against the cold. Small two-person tables were lined up along the glass.
The bar area and the solarium formed two outer sides of a raised square space in the middle. If you wanted to drink, you sat at the bar or in the solarium. If you wanted pizza, you went up three steps at the back of the bar or in the middle of the solarium and sat in a leather booth in the middle.
Kristina and I headed for the solarium and sat at a table against the glass, directly across from the stairs going up to the booths. Just about the time we'd settled in with our beers, in walked two couple from Central Casting.
The men were wearing matching tight black jeans, white muscle shirts, with their hair slicked back. One of them even had a box of cigarettes tucked up in the sleeve of his t-shirt.
The women had towering 80s hair – bleach blonde and teased a mile high – and they matched, too. One wore a short white frilly dress with black polka dots. The other one wore the exact same style of dress but it was white with black stripes instead of dots. They were obviously best friends, as they'd traded the accessory hair bows that came with the dresses. So the one in the striped dress was wearing the polka dot bow, the one in the polka dot dress was wearing the striped bow.
No mistaking the fact that these tough fellas had come to the Big City through the tunnel from New Jersey, and they were there to show off their women and show their women a good time.
They came in, went up the steps, and settled in a booth. Kristina and I watched their grand entrance without comment, turned to watch them go up to a booth, then went back to whatever we'd been talking about.
Out of nowhere, we heard PING TING TING TONG. We looked down on the floor: a penny. Kristina picked it up and put it on the table.
A few minutes later, TING TONG TING and another penny landed right on the table. We looked up, and we could see that the Jersey Girls were craning their necks around like geese. Whenever they thought someone wasn't paying attention, they pitched a penny.
Kristina and I didn’t say a word about it, just watched, then went right back to our conversation, not acknowledging it, just continuing to nurse our steins of beer and slowly stack one penny after another on the table, until we had a pretty big pile.
After a while, there was a pause, and then: CHING TING TEE TEE. The sound was different. We looked down. They’d run out of pennies and had started pitching ice chips from their sodas.
FINALLY, they got up to leave and started walking straight toward us, with the intention of walking down the stairs, past us, through the archway, and out the front door. Being polite gentlemen, the men walked behind and the women led the way.
Kristina and I stared at each other, looked down at our beers, looked at each other. I said, "You ready?" Kristina just nodded, and as they approached she began to count down. "Three. Two. One."
WHOOSH. With a flick of the wrist and a sweep of the arm, we launched the contents of our mugs. In perfect unison. A tidal wave of beer washed over the women, rolling up from their knees all the way over the bows on the tops of their hair, then cascading back down and forming mini-waterfalls over their long false eyelashes.
They erupted in howls of fury, screaming and spinning and looking for any way to retaliate. The closest thing to us was a small bussing table for the waiters, holding a full array of pizza condiments.
They grabbed the shakers of oregano! The hot red pepper flakes! The parmesan cheese! But shake as hard as they might, nothing was satisfying. How to compare that sifting SHAKE-SHAKE to the drenching storm we'd delivered!
I saw a fire light in one of the women's eyes as she spotted the Tabasco sauce. In that moment I could almost read her mind. She was going to pour hot sauce all over us and BURN US TO HELL.
But . . . you can't *pour* Tabasco sauce. She snatched the bottle up with a feral smile and started shaking it over our heads! The squeaky WIKKA WIKKA WIKKA and the few tiny drops that flew enraged her even more!
AAARRRRRRGGGGGHHHRRRRRRR
She was growling, and we were gasping for air, we were laughing so hard. But even as we collapsed out of our seats heaving and snorting, some part of my mind was aware of the white t-shirts and black pants coming up behind the women. My eyes registered the large muscles inside the white t-shirts and black pants, and a tiny corner of my soul thought, "So this is how we die."
Miracle of miracles, the men reached around and enfolded the women, grabbed them by the elbows, practically lifted them off the ground, and hustled them – still screaming and howling and clawing in our direction – out of the solarium, through the archway and out onto the street.
The door banged behind them, leaving complete silence throughout the establishment.
We stared at each other. A moment passed, while we assessed the damage. Beer and pizza toppings everywhere. We were covered in... FLAKES. We smelled faintly spicy.
A waiter strode purposefully through the archway, a serving platter held up at shoulder level with something on it. He stopped in front of our table, but before we could begin to apologize, or offer to clean up the mess, he held up a hand to silence us.
"THE BARTENDER," he announced loudly.
Oh great, we thought. This is where we get kicked out.
"The bartender," he said, "NOTICED that you . . . SPILLED your drinks."
"Uh--"
"THESE," he said, swinging the tray at his shoulder down to where we could see that it had two full beer steins on it, "are on the HOUSE."
And the entire place erupted into an extended round of applause.
As the waiter turned to march back to the bar, he swiveled on a heel, leaned back close to us and hissed, "They even stuck GUM to the MENUS!"
@anne hahahaaha oh that's good
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