Black and Tan was originally written as a short story. It also finds it's way in to my book, Three Months to Live.
Black and Tan
I walk into an airport bar after having been away from home on business for a week. I’m tired. I’d like a cold beer. The barmaid walks up and says, “What’ll you have”, with a wink that silently adds “big boy” to the end of her query.
I say, “I’d like a cold beer.”
“What kind?”
“What do you have?”
The witty exchange is nearly too much for either of us to take.
“Our special is black and tan.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s when you take a light colored beer and mix it with a dark one.”
“I’ll try it.”
“Good choice.”
She saunters off to pour the cold beer I am so longing to taste. The barmaid appears to be in her late forties. She’s not quite yet grown out of her cheerleader glory days. Her pants are a little too tight. Her breasts are large and exaggerated. Her bleached blond hair kind of has that misplaced ponytail off center on top of her head “Hi, I’m Barbie” sort of look. Her make-up is too thick. I desperately want to make love to her.
She’s kind of like a Mrs. Robinson of the new millennium. Oh, she was a looker in her day, but the years behind the bar are starting to add up. I find as I get older, so does my Mrs. Robinson. In a few years, it’s going to start getting pretty ugly. I think of my grandmother and shutter. You know that “brrrrr” sound people make when they shutter and shake their head? That’s what I do when I think of Mrs. Robinson a few years from now. I shutter and “brrr” again.
“Cold?” Mrs. Robinson asks as she serves up the black and tan.
Awakened from my daydream/daymare, I say, “Uh, no.” My intellectual gift for gab is a treasure. She walks away.
I hear over the loud speaker that a flight has been delayed. Suddenly, the once empty bar is now crowded. Mrs. Robinson furiously pours more black and tans. A short guy saddles up beside me. He wants a cold one too.
“Whatcha having?” he asks.
“Black and tan.”
“Light colored beer mixed with a dark one?”
“Yep.”
“Good?”
“Yep. Pretty good.” Again, with the witty dialogue.
“Think I’ll have one.”
Then Short Guy tries to get Mrs. Robinson’s attention. It’s not working. It’s a problem we short guys often face. People just don’t see us first. I scratch a note to myself, “When ordering a beer at the bar, always sit on the bar stool, because Mrs. Robinson doesn’t know you’re short that way.” I tuck the clever note away for reference at a later date.
Meanwhile, an Italian guy pulls up on the other side of me. He looks kind of mafia-like.
“Whatcha having?”
“Black and tan.”
“Light mixed with…”
“Dark. Yes, that’s right.”
“Good?”
“Yep. Pretty good.”
“Think I’ll have one.”
He orders up a black and tan. Short guy says, “What did you guys do to get yours so fast?”
We just shrug and don’t answer. He really was talking to himself anyway.
A few other people crowd in. There is a newly married couple just a few feet away. A recent college graduate who has not yet landed a job is next to them. We are all drinking our black and tans in silence, watching the news, occasionally grunting at the story or nodding our heads in synch as though saying, “How sad. How very, very sad.” The black and tans continue to flow. Short Guy still does not have a black and tan. No one seems to care.
A new face joins the crowd. It’s a guy, late thirties, fake tan, slicked back hair, gold bracelet, nice suit and a very loud tie. Mrs. Robinson approaches. Sexy. She says nothing, but quickly jerks her head upward as if to ask, “What would you like, stud?”
Without hesitation, he says, “Black and tan, beautiful.”
She pours the beer and brings it to him. Again, sexy. She places it on the bar and glances at him as if to say, put your lips right here. He, in return, pulls out a cigarette, lights it, and blows smoke in a most confident manner as if to say, “You want me so bad.” She blushes in agreement before moving on to another customer.
I look at Short Guy and say, “Sales guy.” Short Guy laughs and agrees. Italian Guy adds “Definitely a sales guy.” We begin to make sales guy observations and jokes. He’s out of earshot, so there is no danger of a conflict. In the midst of our wisecracks, we’re starting to have some dialogue. Real dialogue, beyond the usual grunts and one word responses. The news fades into the background.
Italian Guy might be in the mafia. I can’t be sure. He explains how he is coming back from Europe where he has been raising funds for a “non-profit” organization. I want to ask, but just can’t. He references the organization a few times, as “the organization”, but seems nice enough. We have a pleasant chat. Short Guy turns out to be quite witty. The married couple? They are on their way back from a honey-moon and had dated for five years before marrying. He’s an architect. She’s a systems consultant. The kid out of college is looking for work in the pharmaceutical field. He’s the first one in his family to go to college.
Soon, the place is really hopping. More black and tans are served. Conversation and laughter are all around. Mrs. Robinson finally notices Short Guy and says, “Oh, honey, I am so sorry. What can I get you to drink?”
He orders a black and tan. It’s on the house. I glance over. Sales Guy is gone. I have to laugh. Sales guys are sales guys because they have a unique ability to sell. Sell an idea, a product, be it tangible or intangible they hit us where we live and they sell it. I decide this guy is a natural sales guy.
Without speaking to any of us, without any pitch or presentation, but simply by being there, looking like a sales guy, he sells us on the notion that we need to lighten up. We need to turn away from the TV and the news. We need to make sales guy jokes with one another, strike up dialogue and get to know one another, even if it is just for a brief, shining moment. We need to connect, to interact. We need to be. We need to be seen, and heard. We need to see and listen. We need to take care of one another and be taken care of. We need to wear loud ties.
I pull out my pad and start to erase my brilliant note about always sitting on a bar stool before ordering a beer. In its place, I plan to write “Sales guys are cool” to remind me of this great epiphany. I’m interrupted by someone on the PA system announcing boarding calls for various, previously delayed flights. Everyone puts down their black and tan, shakes hands, says the usual good-byes and good lucks, and heads off to their gates. Our moment has come and gone, but it was good while it lasted.
I board my plane, receiving an unexpected and much appreciated free upgrade to first class. The flight attendant asks me if I’d like to have a drink before we take off.
“Do you have any black and tan?”
