A Story About a Club Soda, a Light Bulb, and a Psychotic Bartender

It was Mr. Hoss’ bad luck to stop by the Glum Street Bar on his way home from the light bulb store, after getting a tan at the Salon Du Jour. If only he didn’t have a hang over from the night before that prevented him from ordering a Glenfiddich Scotch, which he always asked for on the rocks.

Perhaps if he had known that the most senior member of the Cult of Bartenders, Globular Bob, a proponent of procreation and booze, was serving drinks that night to potential recruits, a childless Hoss would have instead requested a refreshing Southern Screw. But, alas, Mr. Hoss erred unaware of the cost, when he ordered a club soda, asking for “a twist” as an afterthought.

Bob stared at Hoss for five minutes or more, quite certain he was a fundamentalist from Kuala Lumpur, where club soda was discovered in 1904 when a tourist sighted an effervescent river flowing on the rain forest floor.

Bob, a xenophobia sufferer, declined to offer Hoss a chance to order something stronger. Instead, he shouted to his compatriot waiters in arms,”Grab him! Don’t let him out the door.” The waiters knew the purpose, of course, was to slice his head off, toss it into the kitchen sink, open the flap, and send it rolling down the chute to the trash bin in the back.

Off he ran the typically formal Mr. Hoss was happy he wore a tee shirt and shorts to show off his tan. With his arms and legs slathered San Trope slick, he easily escaped the waiters’ grip when they tried to grab him. A fast thinking Hoss jumped into the sink, slid down the head ramp into the bin. But after vaulting over the side, he fell when he slipped on a lemon rind.

Not even a minute had passed before the door burst open and the waiters started chasing him, sort of, albeit, their legs a bit wobbly and their thoughts quite foggy. It seems in a quest to forget, they spent the previous night drinking leftover anisette from abandoned glasses on tables simply labeled “Neglect!”

Mr. Hoss easily got away with his San Trope tan and 60 watt light bulbs cradled in his hands.

Of one thing, Hoss could be sure. He would never take a walk down Glum Street any more whenever heading home from the light bulb store.