How I Lost the Last Seven Dollars I Had in My Pocket on St. Patrick's Day

So, there was this bartender.

He was cute. He looked exactly like a more Irish version of the Wily Republican, which, I suppose, was fitting, since I saw him when we were out in Buffalo for St. Patrick's Day.

After ten minutes of watching this boy work behind the bar, I decided I was in love with him and that I wanted him to set aside the bottle of Jameson that was perpetually clutched in his hand so that we could duck out into the alley and kiss.

What I settled for was pushing my way to the bar and ordering a drink for Becky. She wanted a Bailey's and milk.

"A Bailey's and milk?" the bartender asked. He wrinkled his nose.

"Hey, it isn't for me," I said. "My friend requested it. I don't know."

"I'm not even entirely sure we have milk back here," he said. "Let me see what I can find."

He ducked down and rummaged in a cooler. And then another cooler. And then a final cooler--way back, under a row of dusty glasses. He pulled a gallon of milk from the cooler and hoisted it up so I could see. He unscrewed the top and cautiously sniffed. Then he gave me a thumbs-up.

"Great!" I shouted. "I really appreciate it!"

"Anytime, sweetie," he said, and then he got to work mixing the drink.

Later, after I had decided I was super in love with him, I went back up to the bar. There was a lull in the action, and there was some space up there because a large group of people--including a girl who spent a whole lot of time fingering a guy's ass for all to see--had left for the night. So I slid up to the bar and my bartender came right over.

"Can I tell you something?" I asked.

"Of course," he said.

"You look exactly like my ex-boyfriend."

"Really?" he said.

Do I even need to admit here that I'd had a lot to drink by this point in the night? There was, after all, a good reason the cute bartender always had the bottle of Jameson in his hand: Everyone was drinking it, and the boys who'd parked themselves at the bar early in the night--the ones who were getting their asses fingered by slutty drunk girls--bought us several shots.

"Yes," I said. "You look exactly like him. And I was thinking that maybe later I would bring my camera over here and take your picture so I can show him he has a twin in Buffalo."

The bartender tipped his head to the side. "Is that all we're going to do?" he asked. He grinned.

I had to restrain myself, lest I leap over the bar. "Honey," I said, "I'll do whatever you want, but first we need to take that picture."

And I did eventually get that picture. It was busy again, and the bartenders looked like they were seconds from losing their minds, but still the cute bartender came over to me--we were leaving then to get tacos; we wanted Crunchwrap Supremes more than anything in the world at that point in the morning--and I needed to get the picture that second.

And, luckily, he humored me. He leaned over the bar and let me snap a picture with him. And then I pulled whatever money I had left in my pocket--which amounted to seven dollars--and I shoved it at him.

"Here!" I said.

"You don't have a tab," he said, shaking his head.

"No," I said. "It's for you. For being cute!"

And ten minutes later, since I'd given the last of my money to the bartender just because he looked like the 24 year-old version of Wily, Amy's boyfriend had to buy me a taco because I was officially poor, poor, poor.