Why I'll Miss Working In A Bar

[I mention my friend Sean in passing a lot around here. I've known him since we were both tiptoeing out of the closet, February (I think), 1991. University of California, Santa Barbara. Friends from the get-go.]

[Today, he did yet another of those little favors that, when accumulated, amount to friendship. I get the hiccups a lot (probably because I don't crunch, or sing in chorus, and so have a weak diaphragm), and when I do, I keep getting them the rest of the day.]

[So, I was down in the lobby of the Cute Vic, setting up the will call podium for tonight's Andrea Marcovicci show. (Why haven't you attended yet?) Leah asked me to seat tonight, even though presales are such that we barely need a host. Suddenly..."HICK!" The first hiccup, coming as a surprise, is always the loudest.]

[Oh, great, thought I. I'm gonna be in the middle of escorting a couple of octogenarians to their table, and I'll erupt with another fit. No one gives a sour look like an octogenarian who just wants to sit down. I walked into the bar, where Sean was setting up for the evening. "I have the -- HICK! -- hiccups, again."]

[Sean laughed, and said, "Here, this'll fix it." He went to the fridge, the one on the far left that holds the garnish and the champagne flutes, pulled out a bottle of Angostoura bitters and a lime wedge, doused the wedge in the bitters, and said, "Suck on this." (Don't bother; we exchanged the appropriate look and moved on. Sixteen years...)]

[I did, and the hiccups ended immediately. I don't remember seeing this in "Hints From Heloise," do you? Thanks, Sean.]

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