On a balmy July evening, I step into a bustling bar, holding a cellphone to my ear. I am momentarily disoriented, unaccustomed to the intimate crush inside. I squeeze past bodies fitter, taller, tighter, willowier, and more finely clad than mine, rubbing extremities I'd rather keep to myself.

I sit down on the nearest stool I can manage, and carefully set down the cellphone on the gleaming surface so it faces the bar. I brush myself off and down, feeling thoroughly molested.

The bartender is a male, early thirties. Indeterminate northern European stock. He wears a crisp black dress shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows. As he leans forward, a touch of fatigue involuntarily shows on his fine features. His blue eyes flicker to the silvery device sitting quietly on his counter, but ignore it.

Him: Yes?

Me: Barkeep, a glass of your finest cat's piss -- ahem, beer. My friend here [airily indicates cellphone] will also have a beer.