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I somewhat disliked Pat because she reminded me of someone’s boss. I also loved her because, when she spoke, she still used words like “mightn’t” and “chagrined”, as she did when she said to me, “You know what? I’m gonna chew Lorna a new hole. Again, she didn’t remember to close the transom on the Ladies when she closed last night. It looks so unfinished to me.” And then, “You know, I saw you chewin' the lips offa Rosa Tahntoon last night. That trollop mightn’t like you so much without the twenty and drinks you rolled at her. The sight of it all left me chagrined.” Pat had managed to irk me on a Thursday at 8:47 in the morning, just a mere 17 minutes since Bobby’s had opened, and when I had a hangover that would have killed most living things. I don’t know if it was my condition, the annoying skip on the Fred Waring 45 in the juker, or the fact that Pat was spewing this diatribe with breath that would smelt iron ore, but I lost composure for an amount of time. My energy lasted only long enough to allow me to shout, “Pat, you have such class, and you are a veritable fount of pleasantry. However, I am somewhat, but not entirely, chagrined that you have not trotted your cottage cheese over here and poured me another Pabst and an Irish Rose sider!” She sauntered over, poured me like she didn’t own it and wisped, “You still ain’t paid your tab. Prick.” I pondered things like children’s cereals and being electrocuted by a toaster. I lit a soggy Kool that I had found in the parking lot . It felt like Death was walking my dog. It was gonna be a good day.
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