There’s this guy comes into the bar. 30’s, short, disheveled hair and clothes, always drunk. We call him Drunk Tom. He’s probably been kicked out of more bars than anyone I know in Des Moines. I’ve kicked him out, over the last six years, at least 20 times.
I’m not exaggerating.
There’s something about him I like, though. He’s a “nice guy.” I suppose he’s pretty harmless, but I know he’s had at least three DUI’s. I don’t think he drives anymore, so that’s good. He has his own personal cab driver, who I’ve met on a number of occasions.
He walks in tonight, drunk. But, see, he’s always drunk. I’ve only seen him sober one time in the 6 years I’ve known him. One time.
He comes up to the bar, sits down. Fortunately for him, I had just farted right before he sits down. I grab my towel, start wafting it towards him.
I guess he’s like the younger always drunk brother I never had.
He says, oh…that’s nasty! I don’t disagree with him. He sits there, smelling it. What can I get you Tom? He thinks for a second, then another second, then another second, then says, a beer. I go get him a Heineken, it really doesn’t matter. He rummages around in his pocket, throws down a crumpled five dollar bill, I get him his dollar change, he shoves it in his pocket, leaves.
Ten seconds later, two guys come up, same spot, says, ewww. Clint. Did you shit your pants? I say, no. It wasn’t me. It was the guy that was just here.