stripethree

Thursday Night, Smitty McGee’s off Rt. 54 on Fenwick Island.

Second car bomb of the night. Ike orders for us and the young lady (and by young, I really mean she could have been my grandmother) sitting within earshot of us at the bar turns upon hearing the order. She gives us the once over and returns to her drink. Our drinks arrive, the lady looks over again, and comments on how she loves watching”them young boys do those car bombs”. Great, whatever. Bottom’s up.

Maybe, ten, fifteen semi-hazy minutes later, I decide to go for a third (and final) for the night. No one in our group wants to come along, so I’m prepared to just go solo. I get the bartenders attention and ask him for one more car bomb. The lady from before overhears, looks over, and says,

“You doin’ another?”
“Yep. I’m on my own for this one though.”
“Oh hell, I’ll do one.”
(Cheers from our group)

Here we go. So I get mine, and kindly wait for the bartender to get another, still not quite sure what the hell is going on. I walk over and take the spot between our group and this lady and her husband as the bartender leaves her Guinness. She asks me my name so I introduce myself, and she says oh, my son’s name is Jeff, and he’s probably about your age! Thankfully, the bartender has excellent timing and arrives with her shot. I remember asking her if she was ready to go, but I don’t think I gave her much of a chance to answer. Cheers, bottoms up. She finishes just a bit after I do, puts the empty glass down, and says something to the effect of not being able to keep up because she has trouble swallowing it all. I don’t remember exactly what she said and am probably better off that way, but I shook her hand, wished her a nice evening, and returned to my original spot at the bar.

Excellent.

Then there was the argument with the other bartender about ACC basketball.