Caitlin

The place didn’t serve Guinness, so I ask Caitlin what she could recommend. And Caitlin—she’s our server—she tells me the name of a beer they have that she likes. I tell her that I’ll go with that. By this point, she’d already introduced herself, and I’d already introduced myself and my “wingman,” Spiffy. And this place, it just opened up like a week ago. It’s airplane-hangar massive—like you could fit two or three jumbo jets under its roof. Outside, the hand-painted sign smeared across the road-facing wall calls the place, Sips 'n' Pins. You come here to bowl and/or to play bocce and/or for the pub and/or for the pub grub. Not sure about Spiffy, but before tonight, the word “bocce” meant nothing to me. Caitlin takes to us so well that she tries teaching us the rules. This was a first for her, too. What I mean is, before Spiffy and me, she hadn’t tried to teach anybody else how to play bocce. The beer Caitlin brought me was called a “Fat Tire.” I kept needing her to remind me of the name; I could only remember the “Tire” part; I thought she kept saying “Flat,” not “Fat.” I tell Caitlin the beer has “character.” I say it’s got, “layers of flavor”—which it does, but she doesn’t believe me. Maybe it’s my delivery. Maybe it’s my expression. Always when I ask Spiffy how I look, no matter what, he says, “Goofy.” And he’s got this super understated dead-pan way of saying it. 

20 May 2007