"I'm slagging you, I'm slagging you!" he said, shrugging uncomfortably and trying to back pedal. I just narrowed my eyes over my beer glass at him. He drummed his fingers anxiously on the table and checked his watch again.
"Look," I said. "I haven't seen you since CHRISTMAS. We've been here —— what? —— an hour. You've already told me that the only thing you're doing tonight is going back to your apartment and watching Father Ted on DVD. Sit back, have another beer, enjoy the music, chill the hell out, and hang out with me."
He sighed and ducked his head at my nagging. He sat back in his chair and looked over to the corner where the musicians sat, sweatily playing a reel.
I'm seven years old again, begging him to play with me.
When the waitress comes to clear our plates, I make him order another drink. "All right, ONE," he tells me pointedly, as if he's doing me a favor and having a third beer is a huge put-out for him. I send a round of drinks over to the musicians.
"Gee," he observes, "Buying a round of drinks and paying for my dinner? You're so generous!"
"Hmmmm," I say noncommittally. By this point, our conversation has petered out considerably. We're reduced to quips about the music and fellow bar patrons.
The check arrives just as we're finishing the last swallows of our beers. When I put my card on the table, he asks "Are you sure?" By way of an answer I just tot up what the tip should be. Of course I'm sure. Why wouldn't I do this? It's what I do.
We leave, stopping by the musicians to hug the guitarist, who's our first cousin. Their set has just ended and they're packing up their instruments. When we get outside he give me a quick, functional hug. We turn and walk in separate directions.
"Look," I said. "I haven't seen you since CHRISTMAS. We've been here —— what? —— an hour. You've already told me that the only thing you're doing tonight is going back to your apartment and watching Father Ted on DVD. Sit back, have another beer, enjoy the music, chill the hell out, and hang out with me."
He sighed and ducked his head at my nagging. He sat back in his chair and looked over to the corner where the musicians sat, sweatily playing a reel.
I'm seven years old again, begging him to play with me.
When the waitress comes to clear our plates, I make him order another drink. "All right, ONE," he tells me pointedly, as if he's doing me a favor and having a third beer is a huge put-out for him. I send a round of drinks over to the musicians.
"Gee," he observes, "Buying a round of drinks and paying for my dinner? You're so generous!"
"Hmmmm," I say noncommittally. By this point, our conversation has petered out considerably. We're reduced to quips about the music and fellow bar patrons.
The check arrives just as we're finishing the last swallows of our beers. When I put my card on the table, he asks "Are you sure?" By way of an answer I just tot up what the tip should be. Of course I'm sure. Why wouldn't I do this? It's what I do.
We leave, stopping by the musicians to hug the guitarist, who's our first cousin. Their set has just ended and they're packing up their instruments. When we get outside he give me a quick, functional hug. We turn and walk in separate directions.
Labels: Family Matters, General Whining, Observations
2 Comments:
Your brother seems to be acting like a Jerk for quite some time now. I wonder if he knows it...
Hey! No one is allowed to call my brother a jerk but me. Watch yourself, now.
He totally is, though. And I DON'T think he realizes it, which is why I tolerate it so much.
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