The man at the bar is pouring his heart out to a guy with a ponytail and a woman in a fur vest. It’s a story of loss and betrayal, but it’s prelude; as he says at the start, “it’s a little background on me.”
Background for what? A business venture, likely a restaurant, based on a prolonged rant regarding “fuck-ups at the scrambled egg station.”
Fur Vest is in, but full disclosure: she’s “bad with money.”
Mr. Ponytail is listening.
Usually, this bar at this hour would be a private venue for such a meeting. But it’s opening day, and so the minutes of this meeting must reflect the following parties:
Two strangers who discover they went to rival high schools.
The man who yells at the ump.
The wife who refuses to share her nachos and the husband who doesn’t think he should have to give up his wings.
The guitar teachers dishing on their students.
The three bros who can’t settle this question: Is Clayton Kershaw the league’s best hitting pitcher, or is he “among” the best?
A writer playing hooky.