You stand behind the bar, almost as if you mean to tend it. It like you are some sort of bar…tender. You shake off the notion of such a ridiculous moniker and pour the woman in front of you a drink, then make change from the money she gives you.
A young man enters through the front. Even from twenty feet away, the pungent scent of patchouli wafts into your nose, stinging your nostrils. His long, matted dreadlocks give forth a unique odor of their own. The young man’s tie-died shirt is worn and ragged at the edges, and his cargo pants are lined with dirt on the cuffs, which rest loosely on his bare feet. He steps lightly, head swinging rhythmically to his right and left as if he is trying to see someone before they see him.
“Hey motherfucker!” you scream.
The man freezes mid-step, his eyes widening, eyebrows reaching desperately for his hairline.
“Yeah, I see you, hippie!” you say. “I know you saw the sign. You come in around back like all the other tree-huggers.”
The hippie recoils slightly, but does not leave.
“B-but there is no back door!” he whimpers.
You cross your arms and cock your head to the side, shooting him a no shit glance.
“Fine,” he scoffs weakly, “you won’t be getting any of my business.”
“Whatever, you know you don’t have any money,” you call after him as he exits.
You return to exchanging drinks for money behind the bar like some sort of drink...exchanger.