Rebar
“Guy walks into a bar.”
“Like a pub? An airport lounge? Someplace swanky?”
“Could it be a swinger bar?”
“Gotta be low brow. Dark, with mobster booths. No burgers. No sunshine in the windows. In fact, there are no windows.”
“Happy hour or no?”
“Morning? Night? You know, totally different crowds.”
“Maybe it’s a pool hall?”
“And we’re in Vegas?”
“Does Vegas even have pool halls? They sure’s shit don’t have windows.”
“It’s a friggin’ bar, alright? It’s rebar.”
“Rebar?”
“You mean, newly remodeled, like?”
“No, rebar sticking out of the concrete.”
“Like in construction. One of those little metal pole thingies?”
“Yes.”
“So we’re not actually in a bar?”
“No. I just said the guy walked into a bar.”
“But we’re outside.”
“I’m walking by and he just – BAM! – barrels right into rebar poking up just high enough to clip him in the hip.”
“Ouch.”
“Definitely no bueno.”
“He hurt?”
“Was it rusty? I can never tell with those things.”
“Was he tall or short, this guy?”
“You said it clipped his hip.”
“Pretty aggressive rebar, you ask me.”
“Pretty passive-aggressive, I dare say.”
“Well if he was old, shit, that could be fatal.”
“Hell, I walk into a random rebar I’m still ordering a pint.”
“Seriously, my great-grandma-ma clipped her pet cockatiel’s wings one day and dropped dead a week later. True story.”
“Fuck birds.”
“Anyhow, context, details. Put us in the moment. Is this guy white or Asian, Paki?
“Is he a priest, a rabbi, imam?”
“Black, brown, what?”
“So you’re saying a priest, rabbi and imam walk into a rebar.”
“Or what if he’s albino, like an albino Native American, and it’s really bright out and he has to squint really tightly to try to see his way because he just lost his sunglasses?”
“Dropped them on the bus.”
“Maybe somebody nicked them on the bus.”
“Off his face.”
“Could happen.”
“On the bus.”
“She’s a spy on the run, being chased, like a kick ass chick Bourne. She needed his sunglasses to conceal her identity, because she doesn’t even know who she is.”
“Is he wearing a uniform of some kind?”
“What about his back story. Is he a sad man?”
“He could be obese, or maybe even, what do you call it, portly? Shaped like a pear.”
“He’s got mumps. Happy? Friggin’ dude has the mumps.”
“What’s mumps?”
“But what does he really want?”
“Hey, look who’s here!”
“Hello, hello, hello!”
“Sit, have a pint.”
“Cheers, mate. What’s today’s topic then?”
“I’m trying to tell a story here.”
“Yeah. Go on.”
“Okay. This lonely, fat, widower guy, I think he may be blind, is out searching for his guide dog named Precious, who’s gotten loose. He trips on a janky rebar – maybe mistook it for one of those blind-people canes or something – then he falls on it where it goes completely straight through him, totally impaling him, and it’s sticking out his back and we can’t lift him off it because he’s so heavy. He’s bleeding out all over the sidewalk and we’re waiting for emergency to arrive, and he somehow musters the strength, I don’t know how, in his final moments, he sort of jerks and skids himself up this thing he’s pinned on with his fat trembling hands. Not much, just a couple-three inches, but enough, to finally scream, just one time only, ‘Precious!’ Then he slides back down, and just before his final breath a seeing eye dog bounds up.”
“Precious.”
“She licks his face. He smiles sadly. “Good girl,” he whispers. Died right there.”
“Bloody hell, mate, nasty one that is... Carbon or stainless steel? Or was it one of them composite-like type with basalt? They come in different flavors, you know.”
“What?”
“What kind of rebar?”