Four years ago I visited my sister a few miles beyond the village of Trout Run, PA. Hers is a rural address overlooking a beautiful valley and lake.
Long day of travel, nine at night, and I had a taste for a few beers. I went down to the quiet village and found the local bar. The place was hopping. Pool table, music, animated customers at the taps and I was looked toward once, then ignored by all, including the bartender. They nailed me as a flatlander. Dang, people still smoke here. Loud women and huge guys in flannel and boots, some with knives on their belts. I wandered down to the take-out cooler. Lotta Bud, Bud Light, Miller, Miller Lite, Coors Light (If you can imagine.) and all alone and way up there at the top of one of the coolers partially obscured by the door was what looked like a sixer of Lagunitas. Boom! I went back down to the busy end of the bar and waited. When she determined I had groveled long enough, the bartender asked, “What would you like?”
I said, “A sixer of Lagunitas to go, please?”
She said, “What? A six pack of Margaritas?” Big laughs all around.
“No, the beer. You have one six pack.”
She looked confused. She scratched her neck on the way to the cooler, and I shadowed her on the other side of the bar. I pointed.
“Okay, whatever,” she said.
Back at the busy end, I paid and left with the beer and my life.