A Crow Walks Into A Bar...

Day 203: A Crow walks into a bar...

When you belong to a photography group which issues a monthly list of assignments a la a scavenger hunt, you never know what you may be asked to do. This month, it was "leave the comfort of your familiar surroundings and go somewhere new. As you experience a new environment for the first time, capture your feelings with your camera." Given that, I knew exactly what I wanted to do, and didn't have to go too far from home to achieve my goal.

I'm not a drinker. Nor do I belong in the same social stratum as the area residents who frequent local taverns. Making it even harder to walk into a bar and order a beer was the fact that I'd been out kayaking and was feeling rather chilled, but I steeled myself for the task and approached the barmaid. "I have a rather unusual request," I said, very conscious that my speech patterns and enunciation invariably make me sound like the "after" version of Eliza Doolittle, moreso when I'm about to tell a whopping big fib. "I am participating in a photo journalism class, and we've been asked to take a photograph which captures the atmosphere inside a pub." Sensing some reluctance in the proprietress' eyes, I hastily added, "I'm perfectly willing to buy a beer."

"Long as it's them," she said, pointing to the six men dropping f-bombs two to the sentence, "and don't have me in it." Agreeing, I settled for an Alaska somethingoranother since she didn't have Moose Drool, the only beerish thing I can abide.

I moved to the far end of the bar to wait for my drink. It arrived in a frosted mug, three times the amount of beer I'd normally consume in a year. I set the camera on the bar and opened the flip screen. As I did so, I heard one of the patrons remark boozily, "I think she's takin' pitchurs," which I was...in between great gulps of bitter beverage hurriedly swallowed in the hopes of making a rapid escape.

Fortunately, I was down to the last inch when the conversation one stool over turned to single women and eligible bachelors who didn't have gun-carrying ex-wives (apparently there are none who fit that category in Morton). I was greatly relieved when at last I pushed my glass to the rear of the counter, thanking the barmaid as I did so and leaving with the impression that the words "thank you" were foreign to her ears.

My legs weren't quite going where I'd intended when I made my way out the door of the Bucksnort Pub (its true name, by my oath), and the full effects of my imbibing caught up to me two miles from home. I seriously considered parking the car on the side of the road and making the remainder of the journey on foot. However, now the assignment is complete, and I profoundly hope we don't have a repeat of it any time soon.