Every so often a group of us gets together at a pub after
work on any random Friday afternoon. We
have a couple of regular places, but one place has too exclusive a menu and is
sort of far away. Another is in a town
that only allows two drinks per patron unless you're ordering meals.
We have started going further out of our way to the Irish
pub.
Part of this is because several of us are Irish. Another part of this is that the pub is
across the border from the two-drink-limit town. Another reason is because the Irish pub is
better for the commutes of the two of us who organize these adventures.
But the main reason we go further out of our way to the
Irish pub is Jarvis.
Jarvis is Waiter Extraordinaire. He is efficient, he is hilarious, he dances,
he jokes, and he is as sharp as a tack.
Best of all, Jarvis smells good. Really.
I mean, Jarvis … smells … really,
really gooooooooooooooood.
Jarvis has a symbiotic relationship with us: We know he will compliment us and make us
feel good about ourselves; he knows we will tip him well and make him feel good
about himself.
Best of all, though, Jarvis is a flirt. He's a hugger, and the smell of his cologne
lingers on our clothing long after he comes in for the obligatory squeeze. The men simply think Jarvis is a great guy
and an excellent waiter. We women think
this and much more.
It is one of the few relationships in my life that works for
and in its simplicity.
Besides, Jarvis smells good.
Really. He smells really, really
good.
