The Last Straw

I’m at the bar, settin up, I notice we’re runnin low on long straws. You know, those things you put in your waters and Long Islands?  I’ve got a total of 4 behind the bar. The door guy comes in, I ask him, could you do me a favor and go in the back room, see if we have any long straws?  Sure, he says, and goes back.

A minute or so later, he returns, nope, don’t see any straws. Ok, I’m gonna go down to the Lift, steal some from there. (The Lift is a martini bar down the street from The Mews, same owner, I work there also).

I go down there, not open yet, I’ve got a key, let myself in. I go in the back room. Ok, where the hell are the back-up straws?  I’m looking up and down, can’t find em. Oh wait, there’s a box, on top of the ice machine. It’s not labeled, but maybe that’s them.

I reach up on tip-toes, to get the box down, but what I don’t notice, is there’s another box on top of that, but I find out quickly, that it’s there, because all of its contents, RAIN DOWN ON ME, light bulbs, spatulas, caulk guns, and it feels good to have an energy efficient light bulb smash to bits on your head.

I find the straws, but have to spend the next 10 minutes cleaning up.

I think I’ll put the box with all the junk that fell on top of my head right back where I found it, sitting precariously on a box of furnace filters, on top of the ice machine.

What are friends for, right?

From my heart to yours,

Clint Curtis. Bartender.

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