At Clarence's

“Who’s gonna come into a bar called Clarence’s, anyway?” old Christine said. She took another sip and kept looking at the young and only customer next to her.

It was a slow night. Bud, the bartender, had been listening to Christine for half his life it seemed, so, her comments often got absorbed by the wallpaper and fixtures. He placed the customer’s drink before him.

“Say, I don’t mean to be rude, but are you a man or a woman?” Christine asked. Bud rolled his eyes and wondered if he should insist Chris go home. Wouldn’t be the first time.

The man gave Christine a puzzled look. Her state was obvious. “Shall I remove my pants,” he asked, “or just unzip them?”

Christine laughed hoarsely. Even Bud laughed.

“Yes, remove ‘em. I won’t object,” she said.
A little silence and sipping ensued. “What is he, Bud? You must know.”

“Chris,” Bud said. It was his don’t-run-the-customer-away tone of voice.

“The arms are a woman’s. I should know. But the mustache.” More silence.

“Hey Sonny or Missy, whoever you are. I don’t like people like you. Why can’t you be one or the other?”

“Chris, I’m warning you,” Bud said softly.

“Well I can talk too. I just wanna say what I think. Everyone else does.”

The customer finished his drink and walked over to the register. Bud followed. Christine couldn’t make out the few words they exchanged. She’d ask Bud in a moment.

Then the two were alone again. “He left you a present,” Bud said. “Here it is. A voucher for your next 10 drinks.”

After a few minutes, Christine began to cry. Bud gently placed a hand on her arm.

“Why can’t you just try loving people, Chrissy?” he asked. “It isn’t as hard as you think.”