Setting: a hotel bar in scenic Albany, New York. I get to the bar and the only seat available is between a man and a woman. I take it, nodding at both of them.
As I nod at the woman, I notice she looks exactly like January Jones. It's clearly not her -- what on Earth would January Jones be doing at a Holiday Inn near the Albany International Airport? -- but this could clearly be her younger sister. She is stunning. She also looks more nervous than a middle-aged woman who has never flown before and is waiting for her delayed flight.
Clearly, she's also taking the bar the next morning. This, of course, makes this the worst time in the world to approach her.
So I sit and I order my food and content myself with waiting for it whilst reciting the elements of crimes.
But then the bartender comes back and sets down her order. And she had an order. My God, that order was magnificent. It was beyond magnificent. It made me feel ashamed to order the chicken sandwich.
On her plate was a burger, measuring somewhere between four and five inches thick. I eyeballed the weight at an estimated three-quarters of a pound, and that was just the patty. We still had to account for the chef's generosity in dispensing toppings. On this burger was enough cheddar cheese to envelop the entire patty a drip on the plate. Over that, the chef had perched four strips of the good, peppered bacon, a ring of caramelized onions, a slice of beefsteak tomato, and a bun that looked like it had been born and bred in butter.
I said this burger was magnificent. That's selling it short. It was a f*#$ing masterpiece.
As you might expect, because of this burger, I instantly fell in love with this woman.
Any woman who would order and eat something like that was clearly the greatest woman on Earth. And when she also looked like Betty Draper? That's just irresistible. I had to at least give it a shot.
"But wait!" A tiny voice inside my head screamed. "Look at how stressed she is! Don't hit on her now! And at least wait until she is finished eating. And remember Rule #24: Don't ever hit on a woman while she's eating!"
Sound advice. Reasonable advice. Logical advice.
So of course I said to the tiny voice, "Shut up, tiny voice. Look at her. She is clearly my soulmate, based only on her looks and the way she eats when she's stressed. Plus we have to talk about that burger. Hell, she might even let me have some. And again, look at her."
So I talked to her. And, as you might expect, she shot me a look that would have killed even Rasputin himself. And after a couple of minutes to try and break in, I had to recognize I was beat. And when the bartender brought over my wimpy chicken sandwich and she glanced at it and shook her head, well, I might as well have joined a choir.
So I settled down to eat my sandwich. And, right on cue, from my other side, the guy who was sitting there said to me, "So you're taking the bar exam, huh?"
I look at him and he has a look that says, "She doesn't want to talk, but I'll talk." And I turn to her and she looks at me and her look says, "You are going to deserve every minute of this, pal."
And so I turn back to the guy and give him look that says "I wanted to talk, but only to her. I mean, duh. Now go away." And I say, "Yes."
"Yeah, me too," he says, excited. "Do you think they'll hit secured transactions? I kind of hope so."
I swear that the sound I heard coming from the woman was a snicker.
The guy was still talking about why he thought a secured transactions question was due on this exam as January Jones, Killer-Burger-Eating Edition, walked out the door.
Always, always, listen to the tiny voice. It speaks truth.
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