Chameleon, Part II

Continuing with this little story, it was another Friday night at Think-A-Holic Lounge and the busiest night for predatory biped lizards in this part of the cosmos, next to Saturday night.

I sat at a table in a dark corner instead of at the bar where I usually sit and that's because of Chameleon, the new barmaid with the veil covering her face. You don't get service from a barmaid when you sit at the bar. You have to look at Angus McCloud's ugly spook face all night long and that gets a little old after a while. But I didn't see Chameleon anywhere and I craned and strained my neck like a goose, looking all around the Lounge for her. Then I heard her voice. But it seemed to be attached to someone else (see pic).

When this Chameleon look-alike approached me I started to peel off Solar Bucks like I was husking corn and handed them to her, even before I ordered a drink. Just the very idea of being waited on by a woman who looked like a nun made me feel guilty. Guilty enough to expunge my guilt with money, just like they teach you from day one on planet Earth.

But this isn't Earth, I said to myself as I gently laid a Solar Sawbuck on her tray, on top of the three Solar Dollars and the one Solar Fin that I'd already laid there. I'd never felt this guilty about anything in my entire life before and all I did was just sit down. After I ordered a double shot of think-a-hol and a schooner of bubbly chaser, I secretly hoped I'd have enough money left over to pay for the drinks when they arrived.

After Chameleon left, I muttered a few choice words to myself about Angus, the big-ass head bartender who'd hired this shapeshifter called Chameleon. I was almost certain, at this point, that she was splitting her tips with him and that the worst of it was yet to come.

To be continued...

Chameleon

I rarely sit at a table at Think-A-Holic Lounge but ever since the Lounge hired a new barmaid last week (see pic), my butt hasn't touched a bar stool there. No one knows anything about her or where she comes from and Angus McCloud, the Lounge's big-ass head bartender (and the ghost of a dead Scottish poet) won't divulge any information about her, except her name. Chameleon. That's what he calls her. And that means Angus is not only the guy who hired her, he's also the one who's dating her.

I've always been a good tipper, even a big tipper, but one look at those alluring, mysterious eyes and folding money starts to slip between my fingers. Especially when those eyes look back, or pretend to look back. The fact that all you can see of Chameleon are her eyes makes our lounge lizard brains work overtime just trying to imagine what the rest of her is like.

I gotta hand it to ol' Angus, he sure knows a money maker when he sees one. I wonder how long we regulars at Think-A-Holic Lounge will last before our tip money is all dried up and we have to go back to work to earn more. It doesn't matter. That's just fine with me.

What else do I have to do with my disposable Solar Dollars, Fins and Sawbucks? Still, one thing bothers me and I'm sure it bothers the other regulars, especially the tried-and-true lounge lizards who make Think-A-Holic Lounge their home away from home. Why is she called Chameleon?

To be continued...

Thanking My Lucky Stars

Cosmic taverns on this side of the space-time continuum pretty much stick together when it comes to keeping undesirables off their bar stools and especially from behind their bars. And Think-A-Holic Lounge is no exception. The Lounge has participated in the Intergalactic Alert Program ever since Angus McCloud, our big-ass head bartender, has been tending bar there. And that’s been well over four hundred years now.

One Wednesday afternoon, as I sat on a stool enjoying my quiet time at the Lounge, this character (see pic) waltzed into Think-A-Holic Lounge like he owned the place. He bellied right up to the bar and told Angus he was from Earth (yeah, right, and I suppose he walked here) and that he was looking for a bartending job. Angus immediately recognized his face from the list of intergalactic alerts that went out just last week.

According to the alert, this kooky-looking stranger was nothing but a freeloader who had tried to get himself jobs in convenience stores and taverns all over the galaxy. Whenever he succeeded, he’d then graze his way into unemployment by eating and drinking as much of the stock as he could. Invariably, he’d get caught and get fired. I sincerely hoped the old bum wouldn’t try to put the bite on me.

Well, Angus didn’t even let this goober’s butt hit the bar stool. Without even saying a word, the big ol’ Scottish ghost tossed the stranger out on his ear. During the scuffle, I had a change of heart and managed to slip a solar sawbuck into the left pocket of this freeloader’s tattered black cardigan. I also snapped this picture of him with my cell phone camera.

I really felt sorry for the old guy. I figured that, if it weren’t for a wee bit of good luck, that old jasper could very well be me. I thanked my lucky stars that the old bum wasn’t me and, with that thought in mind, I quickly ordered a double shot of think-a-hol. Without the usual bubbly chaser.