Free American Goth by J. D. Glass Page B

not to stare, but I was certain I knew him, recognized him on some fundamental level. He led us to a table and handed us our menus, letting us know he’d be back in a moment with the pints Uncle Cort had requested.
    “Yet another thing to get used to,” I told him with a small grin. The biggest thing had been one of the simplest: crossing the street. A lifetime of checking left, then right had to be reversed and I compensated by truly paying attention to and using the crosswalks. Food-wise, the first thing had been the whiskey in the ketchup. That had been an unpleasant surprise. The next had been the unexpected tang of vinegar on my potato chips. Actually, I rather enjoyed that and had gotten into the habit of eating my fries or chips like that, vinegar and salt. But this, the last… “Warm beer,” I said and saluted him with it before I took a sip.
    “Don’t be a heathen,” he returned with a smile, “it’s not beer, it’s ale, and it’s good for your blood this way.”
    “Sure. Yeah. Right. When did they first get steady current and electrical refrigeration over here?”
    He laughed outright. “Logan, your father, said almost the same exact thing to me once.”
    “Really?” I asked, pleased for some reason. It was the first time anyone had mentioned my father that I didn’t automatically want to weep, but instead felt a warm sort of comfort, almost as if he were there and had put invisible arms around me.
    “Truly. He insisted the virtues of warm beer were extolled because the people extolling it had no refrigeration.” He took a deep pull and smacked his lips. “He may have had a point, but it’s still pretty good this way. And besides,” he added, “it’s warm relative to refrigerated—it’s not as if it’s heated up like tea.”
    The waiter came back, introduced himself as Graham, and after he took our order, Uncle Cort took me through the finer points of drinking ale, including a theory about the marketing of cold beer as a plot to destroy the ale industry, since cold beer could be stored for months, and ale for barely a week.
    When a woman came up to the table and asked for a dance, I glanced up from my plate toward Uncle Cort and waved him away with my fork. “Go right ahead,” I told him, returning my attention to my plate. “I’ll be here with my well-done cow and my warm beer.”
    “Actually, I was asking you ,” she said, her voice friendly and low and I glanced up, first to see my uncle trying not to laugh at me, then to look over into a sparkling pair of light blue eyes, partially obscured by short dark brown hair that fell over in one long lock.
    “Well, go on,” he said and this time he did laugh. “I’ll watch your well-done cow for you.”
    Flustered, I stood anyway. “And my bass too,” I reminded him and pointed to where I’d tucked it under the chair and table, “don’t forget.”
    “It’ll all be here,” he promised.
    Her name was Hannah and as one dance became another and we fell into a real conversation, I learned that not only was I in what was considered to be the oldest bar in London, but also the oldest gay bar. I also learned that she was “taking a bit of a break” from gigging, since she was a studio and session drummer and had just come back from a six-week tour as a drum tech with a semipopular band.
    It was a good conversation, and suddenly I realized I’d spent more time chatting with her than with Uncle Cort, who’d invited me.
    “Hannah, I don’t want to be rude, but my uncle did invite me for dinner.”
    “Of course,” she said and smiled, “and I’ve kept you. Maybe you’ll join me for dinner sometime?” she asked as we approached the table.
    I thought about it and grinned. She was all right, but I wasn’t up for dating anyone yet, not with all the new…stuff…kicking around my head. Friends, though. Well, Elizabeth and Uncle Cort would certainly encourage that.
    “How about…we could meet here sometime during the week and