Last night at the jazz bar was an odd one. I mean that in the best way, of course. I walked in and M. was looking obviously sick. None of the people who could have covered for her were free or answering the phone. Which meant that M., with a fever running in the 99-102 range, was trying to tend bar.

Not that she caused some huge mess or anything, we just all felt bad for her. Luckily the bar was dead last night, oddly so, so most of the night was spent in a corner of the bar, getting her to have more soup, tea, and water, while Val (the waitress last night), Hammerpants, M. and I all chatted away.

So no messes or anything unless M. missed the runner ledge near the ice well to put away a bottle of vodka and it hit the floor. And then she stared at it for a few seconds to work out what had happened. That may or may not have happened. I won’t tell.

Still – it was this kind of night:

We were told of the weekend, when M. and Val were both waitressing and a guy at the edge of M.’s section saw Val go by and touched her ass. Not an accidental touch. When he saw it was Val he said “Oh, I thought you were my waitress.”

Dude. Not the way to make that better. So, after he tries three different stories (“Oh, I thought you were my waitress.”, “I didn’t touch you at all” and “It was an accident, and I was talking to my girlfriend” (yes his girlfriend was with him)) M. handed him his check and told them they were being closed out and could go now. This guy’s response? “Oh, you’re buying us drinks?”

One the one hand I appreciate the balls, stupidity or drunkenness involved. On the other? Jesus that guy was just lame on lame with a side of lame.

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Val spent a while last night thinking she smelled broccoli at random moments. I don’t know, either.

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Some woman called the bar. She asked if there was a guy, in his 30s wearing glasses with dark hair who was a regular and named Matt. The bar was mostly empty, and I was the closest thing there. Except for the Matt part and the dark hair. But this woman insisted to M. that Matt was there and that M. needed to tell him a message that Matt needed to “fix his situations.”

I, of course, offered to be Matt should she call back. Sadly she never did.

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But the winner last night was Hammerpants. Let me set the scene a little.

There was a bottle of beer. One, normal sized, bottle of beer. The beer sits on a cocktail napkin. Big enough to hold a glass, bottle or even decent sized mug. It could even hold two bottles, if you put them down right. The napkin, of course, sat on the bar.

So Hammerpants sets his beer down on the bar, next to the napkin. I shake my head, reach over, pick up his beer and put it on the napkin.

“Was that so hard?”

“The napkin is a small target.”

“I feel bad for your girlfriend.”

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And that’s what kind of night it was.