I'm in the bar 'cause it's close and it's little and there's an ice-cream place across the street and I like the way the roof is covered in dried palm fronds but I want to fit in so I say:

"I know what you mean." 

I'm not sure what he means and I'm wanting him to stop talking to me 'cause I want to drink down a couple of Budweiser's and then take my girlfriend school shopping.

"A Republican that becomes a Democrat and then calls the Democratic organization putrid.  What's that mean?" he says.

"Rotten," I say.  "Putrid means rotten."

"And her husband was shooting movies of himself and posing and actin' like He was some kind of ferryboat war hero?"

"Whatever," says the woman sitting to my left then pushing a fresh cigarette between her lips.

"I was there," says the man with the chrome plated chain attached to the leather wallet then pointing to a faded tattoo on his arm.
"I was watchin' my guys and my guys was watching me and we weren't shooting no film using scripted bullets people were dying and the bullets were real."

"I'm sorry," I say.  The hardest thing I've ever encountered was being within reaching distance of my first real vagina.

"We got ourselves another Hemingway," says the woman.  "Kerryway."

"And did you see her tell off that reporter?" he says while pointing at the ceiling mounted television.  "That scared the hell out of me."

"It was something," I say. 

"She ain't even an American," he says then ordering another shot.

"Hell no she ain't no American," says the woman sitting to my left.  "Just listen to her talk."

After a pause and knowing better I say:

"She's naturalized."

"She's what?" says the woman then relighting her cigarette.

"She took some classes and became an American," says the man.  "But she ain't no real American, not like you or me."

"I don't agree with you on that," I say.

"Say what?" says the man.

"My grandmother immigrated to this country," I say.

"American women don't talk like that and even if they could most know how to do it differently," says the woman.

(Huh?)

"He's lucky I didn't come across him shooting his war film," says the man. 

Where's she from?" says the woman.

"Mexico," says the man.  "She's a billionaire Mexican."

I know the answer but don't want to sound cocky so I say:

"I believe she was born in Mozambique."

"Perfect," says the man then drinking down the shot.

"Where?" says the woman.

"Ain't in America," says the man.

"It's in Africa," I say.  "She's an African- American."

"But she's white," says the woman, "Ain't she?"

"I know a Mexican when I see one," says the man. 

"She was raised in Africa," I say.  "She has openly described herself as an African- American even though she outwardly appears to be a white woman.

"And that makes her a black chick?" says the woman. 

"I guess being around black servants day and night had an influence on who she thinks she is today," I say.

Sometimes people sit at bars and the talking stops and our conversation stops momentarily too but then it starts again:

"And this Mexican doesn't trust Ted Kennedy?" says the man.  "Who wouldn't trust a Kennedy?"

"That was 30-years ago," I say.  "She likes Mr. Kennedy now and he likes her, too."

"Gimme Laura Bush anytime," says the woman.  "Do you like Laura Bush?" she says while at the same time looking at me.

"I like Mrs. Bush," I say.

"Did you know that she's a librarian?" says the woman.

"And a teacher," I say.

"I like librarians," says the man.  "They got strong fingers."

"Is that so?" I say.  I never thought about the strength of a librarians fingers but now maybe I will.

"Born in Texas, too," says the woman.

"I like Texans," I say.

The man says:

"Now that's a First Lady.  An all-American chilli eatin' lipstick wearin' USDA Grade A gal. Betcha she even wore poodle skirts," says the Vietnam veteran.

"I would have enjoyed poodle skirts," I say.

"I'm sure you would have," says the woman then laughing.

The man puts his hand near his ear and says:

"I think I can hear the First Lady callin' my name."

"What's it sound like?" I say hoping he's the type I can joke with.

"It sounds like the opposite of what the billionaire black wanna-be sounds like," says the woman.

I'm relaxed and feeling like we're all just a bunch of friends expressing ideas so I say:

"She can't help that John Heinz left her half a billion dollars.  Having loads of money isn't a valid excuse for not liking somebody."

In another bar in Florida I once expressed my thoughts regarding the confederate flag and for my trouble I got a front tooth knocked out. 

"You some kind of pinko, boy?" says a man sitting next to the Vietnam vet.  I hadn't heard the word pinko used since I was a kid. 

I'm no longer relaxed and we ain't a bunch of friends expressing ideas and the laughing has stopped so after a pause I say:

"Of course, I'd prefer it if the First Lady wasn't a billionaire."

"Damn straight," says the tattooed veteran.

The man who called your correspondent a pinko is laughing now and between laughs he says:

"He'd prefer it."

"To the Mexican," says the woman then lifting her glass.      

I inhale, pause and then say:

"To Maria Teresa Thierstein Simões-Ferreira Heinz Kerry."

"Whatever," says the woman. 

The Vietnam veteran drinks and swallows and then puts his hand to his ear and when his hand is to his ear he says: 

"The First Lady is callin' me..." (Then doing his best Laura Bush impersonation he says:) "Come and get yer vittles, sugar.  It's suppertime, honey."

Everyone laughs and while they're laughing he pretends to be clanging a Texas dinner triangle and the bartender brings more drinks and says:

"Ten dollars and seventy-five cents."


I eventually left the bar having had more fun than I originally anticipated. 


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