Check Please

The guy sitting next to me at the bar
is named Harley. I said, “Nice to meet
you, Mr. Davidson.” “Oh, no, but I
would like his money. My last name is,”

and then I never did catch it. He is
from Minnesota and this is the first
winter that he and his wife would be
wintering at Gulf Shores. He was a

loud talker and a louder laugher and
his big body rose and fell with every
guffaw. I pictured him in a Santa out-
fit. “We’re about the same age but you

look a lot younger than I do,” he said,
which didn’t make any sense to me be-
cause we hadn’t shared ages and then
he said that my wife looks a lot young-

er than I do and his wife chimed in on
how she believed it was because I was
bald and that always makes guys look
older. I bit my tongue and added that

I am glad to be vertical and taller than
the grass and I was glad she went back
to her beer and a conversation with a
loud-mouthed woman sitting next to

her.  I told Harley a semi-dirty joke and
I thought he was going to fall off the
stool as he exclaimed for all the snow-
birds to hear, “And a dirty joke from

a preacher,” and I said to the bartender,
“Check please.”  As my wife and I headed
for the door, I exclaimed, “Merry Christmas
to all and to all — goodnight.”

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