The Truth

* * *

Stephanie’s suggestion of the new bar was a good one. The Den isn’t the craziest or most innovative bar. There are no go-go dancers in cages or mechanical bulls or speakeasy passwords to get the imported private-label vodka. But there’s no way I could get Megan to agree to go to some of the real night spots that I used to haunt in my wilder days. Hell, I’m slightly surprised she agreed to go anywhere but TGI Friday’s. So I’ll count The Den as a win.

Especially with the music pumping, clear and sharp enough to make us wiggle in our seats without being so loud that we can’t hear each other without screaming. And I have to admit, since this is a post-work sort of place at this hour, it’s a lot easier to come in wearing the day’s skirts and blouses rather than spending the day getting dressed up for a night on the town. Best of all, we’re here with ‘our tribe’, and that helps anywhere be better.

Our waitress comes up in her purple Den shirt, the cut tailored to best show off her tip generators without looking too skanky. “Evenin’, ladies, I’m your server tonight,” she says, sticking a left shoulder forward to show off the name tag of Jasmine that’s pinned there. “Want to hear the specials?”

“Sure,” I reply. “What’s on tap?”

Most of the specials are your typical bar standards, a few name brand beers and popular mixed drinks that’ll go over with the end of week crowd and a few bar food specials that’ll keep you thirsty with their salt content. “And last, but certainly not least,” Jasmine recites with actually admirable smoothness, “we have our Donut Bliss Buzz, which is my recommendation to make the stress of the week disappear. It’s an extra-large frozen Sangria with some extra-sweet liquors, giving it that feeling of ‘Calgon, take me away’, all topped with whipped cream, sprinkles, and a fresh Homer Simpson-style donut.”

I recoil in horror. That sounds like the most American bar drink ever. The whole monstrosity sounds like diabetes in a glass. I think I’ll order a simple red wine, but Stephanie is bouncing on her barstool like she’s already had an injection of sugar.

“Yes, that sounds perfect to make this shitshow of a week disappear! We’ll take a round of those for the table! And an extra-large order of hot wings!”

The waitress looks to Megan and me to confirm. I shrug. “Why not? Sangria’s got wine in it, and that was going to be my order.”

And I will need the extra energy tomorrow for Ace’s pups, anyway.

At my agreement, Megan smiles. “I’ll take one too, plus a water with lemon.”

The waitress nods and disappears into the growing crowd of people.

I glance around, noting the men around us have lost their suit jackets and loosened their ties, and the women have let down their hair and undone a button or two.

It’s a costume change that’s been used in ‘office bars’ since forever. There’s a little bit more skin, a bit of the daily reservations dropping as you check out that guy from Accounting, the one you’ve always wondered whether he can push more than just pencils, or that girl from Public Relations you’ve always hoped to have a whole different kind of relations with.

Overall, the mood for everyone is relaxed, almost celebratory. On the other side of the room, one table lifts big glasses of beer all around as they toast some win for their company, or maybe just celebrating a personal win among their group of friends. Fuck, maybe just the end of another five days of work completed.

Soon, Jasmine comes back with our drinks, which are cartoonishly ridiculous. Part of that is the color, an eye-searing Pepto Bismol pink, topped with what looks like an entire tub of Cool-Whip and rainbow sprinkles. It’s also so oversized that I’ll need both hands to pick it up. But best, or maybe worst of all, right there in the middle, in some sort of defiance of the laws of physics, is the donut itself, appearing to float in the cloud of whipped cream. It’s basically a monstrosity of a drink, something a spoiled kid would design as a birthday punch and an underpaid party planner would have to make a reality. Minus the alcohol, of course.

But here we sit, the three of us with eyes bigger than our alcohol tolerance with Donut Bliss Buzzes of our very own.

“Here you ladies go . . . and before you dig in, the donut’s held up by skewers, so don’t stab yourself,” Jasmine warns in a dry tone that says she’s already had to deal with that tonight. Maybe more than once. I peer into the glass and see that at the bottom, hidden by the mountains of Cool-Whip and pink slush, are a trio of sticks that must spread out against the bottom of the small punch bowl they’re calling a glass. “Our head bartender went to college for engineering and likes to make things difficult for us all. I’ll have your wings out in a jiff.”