Last week, I was at a favorite restaurant in Pittsburgh. Black-owned, it's largely black-frequented. I am often the only polka dot present. I dress up, but not like the brothers. They're full-on bow-tied. The ladies often wear hats. Me and my untucked shirt are completely out of our league, but I'm not about to learn to tie a bow tie at this age. Maybe a clip on.
The bartender and I have our little ritual. He puts an additional cherry in each Manhattan I drink. As he slid me my fifth Manhattan, he winked at the fellow with whom I was chatting and said "This is the one that gets him."
Aye. That it did.
My new friend was Robert. We were there for R&B night when an outrage flared in my ears. They played Hall & Oates. A black band. In a black restaurant. On R&B night. Played Hall & Oates. I was already grousing to all assembled when they fired up Sara fucking Smile.
Probably arguing for argument's sake, Robert nonetheless passionately defended Hall & Oates' inclusion on the playlist. He deflected any criticism I mounted. He defended Sara Smile. He defended Private Eyes. And then he defended that all-time aural abomination Maneater. This put me into orbit.
"Report to the nearest counter and turn in your black card," I said, turning away from him. There was a delighted howl from the gallery, and I paid for absolutely nothing that night.
Thanks for the eminently flexible line, Dorkass! It's worked with gay cards, too, but that didn't get me free stuff.