Count To Ten

It’s Thursday night, beautiful out, kind of slow at the bar, there’s probably 18-20 people in the house. I’m not complaining. People are being hella cool, having some crisp conversations.

I’m chatting with a couple guys at the bar, while doing dishes. We’re just shooting the shit, nothing in particular. I see someone come into the front door in my peripheral vision. Oh it’s this guy. Great. Short, brown hair, looks of Mexican descent. Every time he comes in he’s absolutely wasted. I take that back. He’s BEYOND wasted. To clarify, there’s sober, tipsy, drunk, wasted, shit-faced…ok, let’s say he’s shit-faced. Shit-canned. You get it.

And he’s really weird the way he walks in. He doesn’t have straight movements, but he doesn’t necessarily walk like a drunk person. He has his own way of walking into the bar, arms flailing, almost spastic. He’s got some issues, to say the least.

He comes up, can I get…a…um…beer…please. A beer. Please.

He gets out his wallet, holds it in his right hand.

I say, do me a favor.

He says, wasss that?

I say, count to ten.

He opens his wallet at this point, takes out what I presume to be his debit card, and it goes flying.

He bends over, but while he’s searching, he starts the count,


He finds his card on three, comes back up.


He emphasizes some numbers, but not others.


He puts his card back in his wallet for some reason.


He has his arms up, in victory, as if he’s just finished his first half-marathon.

I shake my head. This is my job. Listening to people attempt to count to ten.

Sorry, bud. I say.

Not tonight.

-Clint Curtis


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