Once upon a time I went to a bar in Euless

To sum up, bars in Euless are pretty ... well, they're just as you'd expect bars in the suburbs to be. Everyone seeming a little stuffy, a little trashy, dressed like they just left the office. A bunch of men with crew cuts slowly, sadly sitting around watching the lines in their faces grow deeper as their bodies fade into useless flacidity.

As you can imagine, this is not a place I find myself in often, yet there I was late one Sunday night. My friend wanted to meet up with some folks he knew who were shooting pool, and he asked if I would like to join. I reluctantly agreed and decided I'd make the most of the experience.

Now this particular friend of mine, he's not always the best navigator of social situations and this was no exception. If you knew him, you'd forgive him for it, because you'd know that all that focus and attention he's not giving to the people around him is being used to compose epic symphonies in his head and analyze the tonal breakdown of the Rhianna song that's playing softly on the jukebox in the corner of the room. The one you were only vaguely aware of before he started humming along with the bass line as you were trying to ask him a question.

So he introduces me to his friends and then leaves to play pool, leaving me with a table full of new people. It's cool, I can get down on the awkward social dynamic no prob. We perform the 'how do you guys know each other/ what do you DO?" routine. Things are still a little stiff- a lot of purses on laps, and smartphone interaction. I need a drink.

I amble to the bar, browse the selection. The bartender is a girl whose older brother was in my Kindergarten class. Ugh. Livin' the dream in my hometown. [Big bro just got out of the army. Got way too excited about the recent assassination of Osama Bin Laden and expressed it via obsessive facebook status updates which flooded my newsfeed for days. And were really annoying. Because they involved Toby Keith quotes.] I inquire about the limited beer selection and thankfully, she doesn't seem to recognize me as she rambles off the domestics -which include neither Lone Star nor Real Ale. I politely request a pint of their finest Bud Light.

I'm leaning against the bar sandwiched between two pretty morose looking humans. Drunk fratty dude on my left, and 30-something hates-his-day-job guy on my right. Day Job's on a stool, elbows on the bar, looking tipsy and bored. Nobody's really talking to him and he's kind of slumped.
Between us on the bar is someone's mostly-eaten plate of food seemingly in transit back to the kitchen. There's maybe one bite of hamburger left, a couple fries, and then there's this delicate pile of lettuce, tomato, onion, and pickles in a remote corner of the plate. Much to my delight, these items look virtually untouched. In particular - those pickles.

I'm giving it the once over, the twice over. You guys know how I feel about uneaten food -especially when it's on someone else's plate. I feel a familiar sensation in my mouth as it begins to tingle with desire for those salty little morsels. I must have them - I must make them mine, my precious...

I pick up one slice of pickle and toss it in my mouth. Yum. Success.

Then it happens. Day Job turns to look at the plate. He studies it, looks up at me. Meekly he begins,
"Um, did you just eat my pickle?"

I look at the plate. I'd had no idea it belonged to him. It looked so abandoned there on the bar. I'm still chewing. It's still delicious.
I look him in the eye as I swallow, "Yep."
He's already caught me. Might as well drive it home.

He studies the plate a little more, "You just ate it right off my plate?"

I look away, unfazed.
"Didn't look like you were gonna eat it," I shrug, as the bartender hands me my beer.

Day Job straightens up and sorta half smiles, "So...You here with anybody?"

I almost choke on my first sip of beer as I swallow my laughter and retort
"No, dude, it's not like that. I just wanted your pickle."

He glazes over and slumps back into his previous boredom pose. I leave him there like that - one pickle down, two to go. I like to think he still had a couple more chances at a good night.