So Kiss Me, and Wait for Me; or Silly Hipsters

The wind howls outside.  It is nine degrees below zero.

Inside, the hipster two stools over has made a discovery.

“Oh, my God,” he says to his heavily crocheted, urban-quirky friend.  “Have you heard of Bob Denver?”

Hidden cleverly behind a towering beer, my eyes brighten by at least two shades.  Has this scrawny, bearded, corduroy-wearing man-boy just discovered Gilligan?  What in the world could there be to say about it?

I take a sip.  I lean imperceptibly closer.

“Who?” says the 20-something gal.  Adorable, as smooth and dewy as a pearl, I fight the urge to tuck a loose bit of her hair behind one of her little pink ears. 

“I heard it at the piano bar,” he says.  He picks up his beer, takes a healthy pull at it.  “You ever hear the song, Drive Me Home, Country Roads?”

Ah-ha. 

John Denver, not Bob Denver.  Take Me Home, Country Roads. 

I close my eyes, the better to listen.   

“I’m not sure that’s right,” she says.

But it is, he insists.  He heard it the other night. 

I open my eyes in time to see her shrug.

The Anchor, a small place with a small bar, is full, as it is almost every day of the week.  Home to local art, local color, and non-local flaky white fish, I hold up my empty glass as a waitress skitters around me. 

“Another?”

“A small one,” I say.

I pull out my notebook.  Hipster #1 is singing.

“So kiss me and wait for me,” he bawls.  “Tell me that you’ll play for me.  Hold me like you’re never letting go.”

The girl winces.

“I’m leavin’, on a jetway!  Don’t know when I’ll be back again!”

She laughs.  He picks up a bottle, sings into it with the sincerity of the young and confident.  “Oh, babe!  I hate to go!”

I smile, push past them.

When I return from the bathroom, my check is ready. 

And so is theirs.  Heads pressed together, they are staring at the bill.  “What’s 20 percent?” he says to her.  “If I just round up and add a buck or two, that should be 20%, right?”

I consider explaining the concept of the percentage to them, but finish my beer instead.  I pull my scarf on, my hat, my coat, my gloves.  I adjust my leggings, pulling them up over my knees, check my boots for zipping.  Outside, Mother Nature has given full throat to her murderous desires, and I push out the front door reluctantly. 

Oh, babe.  I hate to go.