Back in the heavy drinking days, a favorite watering hole of mine was the Paddock, torn down now, a used car lot where it once stood. Gene was head bartender. Crusty old fart; you could tell he was counting the months till retirement. His shift was three weeknights and the weekends. He served you a drink through the smoke without a smile. Nevertheless, he wore a white shirt and tie. And slicked his thinning hair back.
One Friday night when everyone was thirsty, a woman, not a regular, walked in through the back door. First she looked into the small bottle shop off the bar. She came out empty-handed and steamed toward Gene. “What kind of candy bars do you have?” Not a question one heard often during Happy Hour.
Gene raised his brows a millimeter but looked at the boxes behind the bar and rattled off a couple of names. The standards. Probably Hersheys and Milky Ways. “Is that all?” she asked, looking miffed. Gene deigned her a look; then, spreading his arms long down the bar, like Mr. Patience, he delivered one the classic Paddock lines: “Lady, this here ain’t no candy store.”