Sure, he can play it that way, standing there with his hands on his hips trying to look mean and annoyed waiting for you to figure out what you want to drink. It’s his bar. But you can’t help but notice that he could be doing a few other things too, like dusting. How does a crowded sports bar, during Football Season, on a Sunday manage to have dust on the bar and taps? And then it hits you, the only perfect response, and you bite your lip lest you tell him “Hey, why don’t you quit harassing your customers and dust your bar, I’ll give you a boost if you can’t reach”. You start to wonder how many fights start simply because of ‘the Perfect Response’ factor, and begin reflecting on your last bar fight, in Athens Georgia.

“Where do those steps go”, he asks, slurring just enough.

“I don’t know”, you reply, for the third time, still using nuetral tones because you aren’t yet annoyed. You are in fact a bit bemused by the huge biker at the other end of the bar who really wants to know about the steps in the back. He is, however, interrupting a conversation you are having with Mr. Ryan Landreth about the mystery bassist who just did battle with Victor Wooten (The battle was closer than you would have thought possible). The Bar is empty, its around midnight, during the intermission of a Bela Fleck and the Flecktones concert across the street at the Georgia Theater.

“Where do these steps go”, he asks again, for some reason you let a little sass into your responding “I Don’t know”. Just a little lip, but he hears it and isn’t happy. “Look, I was asking you nicely” he intimidates by raising his voice and speaking slowly, “ALL I WANT to KNOW is what’s up those STAIRS”.

See, that's when it happened: Its not that he backed you into a corner, which, like Blue-Balls, happens so rarely its really just a myth parading as an excuse. No, what he did was set you up so perfectly that the Bar Gods would be upset if you didn’t take the opportunity and respond with the tailor-made “Your mother was up those stairs”. Which you do.

That gets him up. He’s about six-five, has graying blond hair under his bandana. He’s wearing a black leather vest and charcoal jeans and is walking towards you. Things aren’t inevitable at this point, you still have a few outs. “Sit down, man, I’ll Buy you a beer”, you say as he swaggers over. You have been looking at the bartender the whole time, whose has his back turned and somehow hasn’t noticed any of he proceedings. The drunk biker doesn’t respond until he is standing over you, and then he says, real slowly, “I am going to ask you one more time. What’s up those stairs”. The wording there is very important: anything else and things could have been different. For instance, he could have said “Where do those stairs go?”, to which you would have replied “I don’t know, let me ask the Bartender, sorry for the confusion, a round on me”, etc. But no. You have no options so you stand up, real slowly, making brief eye contact with Ryan, and finally turn to face the biker. You take a slow breath, plan your physical response based on the slight twitch in his right arm, and say the only thing left to say: The inevitable,

“Your mother is up those stairs”

Back to the sad near-present. It sad because there’s no excuse for any of it. You just came in to watch the game. Sure you only ordered one drink in the last two hours, but if the cocktail waitress had asked, you would have ordered more, and besides, this twirp had no way of knowing that. There was only ten minutes left so you took a seat at the bar only to be subjected to Shorty’s glare when you tell him you haven’t decided what you want to drink. Its seems so simple: One legged men shouldn’t go around trying to get in ass kicking contests, and sloppy bartenders shouldn’t get pissy.

A few minutes later you swallow your pride and order a Red Hook that you don’t want, which as a gesture of peace would have been Nobel-worthy except that you immediately realize that you don’t have any cash and are well short of the Credit Minimum. “I’ll be right back, gotta get some cash” you tell him a few minutes later as the Broncos pull out of reach.

“Wha?!?” he intones, exaggerating his expression and straining his voice. If he was a bit closer and the world more perfect you would have vaulted over the bar right then, applying a ‘flying lariot’ and then maybe a ‘Boston Crab’ or ‘Camel Clutch’. On second thought, you’d probably just overshoot the guy, it would be hard not to. You’re really pissed now. “Pardon”; “Excuse Me”; “What was that?”; A gesture to one’s ear; simply moving a bit closer and tilting one’s head; these are all acceptable responses when you don’t hear something directed towards you. Not “What”, and definitely not “Wha?!?”.

 “I’m going to get some cash [and a Baseball bat], Be Right back [You Short Fuck]” you say, and quickly turn away before his next little constipated face gesture sends you over the edge.

It’s hard not to think less of yourself when you return with the cash. You probably should have just split, or given the cash to the bouncer, who was a cool dude. Paying the man may not be a defeat, but it sucks none-the-less. Heck, everyone who worked there, save one, seems the decent sort. Oh well, you put the five on the bar, and take off, unseen. From now on, you’ll go to Bayside Sports.

And to this day you havn't returned, no matter how cute the women who beckon you may be.