My friend Kim assured me that City Club, smack-dab in the middle of St. Charles' historic district, would fit my divey criteria. I didn't want to say I doubted her, but, well, I doubted her.
I've got to learn to be more trusting.
Sitting in a dumpy bar on a weeknight with Kim and her friend Corndog, drinking bottles of Stag with a handful of old men while watching 9/11 conspiracy shows on the History
Channel constitutes dive-bomber behavior. That would have been plenty. But then Bryan blessed us with his presence.
I heard him before I saw him: "Who wants a shot? Because I'm buying fucking shots for everyone!"
Well, hell. I'll have a shot. A little Jack Daniel's never hurts, right? Besides, I felt like I'd earned it when Bryan looked at me and yelled, "Hey! Look at those big titties!"
That's how he addressed me for the rest of his visit: Big Titties. Just like seventh grade all over again.
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