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.
Me: Barkeep, a glass of your finest cat's piss -- ahem, beer. My friend here [airily indicates cellphone] will also have a beer.
The barkeep raises a well-groomed eyebrow as he surveys the non-descript contraption.
Me: It was his birthday last week. I owe him a little something.
We both look at the phone, he skeptically, I expectantly. A voice, faint in the din, nonetheless speaks clearly from the earpiece.
Faint Voice: Make mine a Labatt.
Me: Make it extra cold. Oh, and extra good. We only live once, am I right.
From 589 kilometres away, he admonishes me.
Faint Voice: Maybe for the rest of you.
Me: Happy birthday.
posted at 9:46:39 pm
2. As "Americana" defines itself as artefacts of American culture, "Gloriana" consists of the artefacts of my culture.
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