What Happened to My Beer?

t was a normal Wednesday afternoon after work. I had a farewell drinks mini gathering with my colleagues at a watering establishment close to Grand Central Station. The suburbanites were flocking en mass to their transport hub to catch the 5:17: 32 seconds to "Suburbiaville." I was casually walking, while talking on my cell phone, watching the an- like habitual creatures rote like trek to the station. It was the coldest late afternoon of the year. With the wind chill it was at least minus 85 degrees. I immersed myself further into my ski jacket exposing only my hand which was holding onto the phone to the bitter elements along with one ear that was pressed tightly against the cell.

My arm had become frozen in the " phone position" and even though I was no longer engaged in conversation I still maintained the pose without being consciously aware of it. I walked into the bar and only became aware of my ridiculous pose once I started thawing out.

I studied the beers on tap available at the bar and ordered a pint of Bass. I picked it up with my right hand and took a long sip that turned quickly into a gulp. The amber cool liquid immediately flirted with my taste buds sending a rush of blood to the head as the alcohol connected with brain cells screaming out for company. I engaged in conversation with a couple of my colleagues and talked about soccer, the political instability in Egypt and why Lyndsey Lolan steals necklaces. A varied subject list for discussion with very little common thread but enjoyable nonetheless.

I placed my half finished beer down on the bar , but within arms length so that very little effort was needed to re-acquaint myself with my pint and motioned with both hands the distance by which a certain goal was missed on a game I had recently watched in soccer. Seconds later , I reached for my glass and turned around in horror to see that it had vanished.

I called the barman over and asked him if he has seen my beer and described what had just happened. He shrugged his shoulders and nonchalantly denied any knowledge of the whereabouts of my missing beverage and then walked toward another thirsty customer to take his order. I turned to my colleagues, but they had dispersed fearing a confrontation. I beckoned the barman over again and once again asked him casually if he knew where my beer was. He asked me if I wanted another Bass. He had answered a question with a question which is always the first sign of dishonesty. He had cleared it away by accident assuming it was a disregarded beer but he couldn't bring himself to admit it. I declined his offer of another beer at my expense because I was not in the business of paying for two beers and only drinking one and a half. I instead ordered eight glasses of iced water. He questioned my amount and I answered that it was for the group standing in the corner. He started lining up the glasses and filling them with ice. At that point I put on my coat that was on a chair nearby and looked the barman in the eye and bade him a sarcastic farewell and left the bar during his mid-pour.