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Crazy Daisy is alone at the bar, without her estranged husband Provo or his evil, goat-eyed twin brother Orem. She is unusually well-groomed; her make-up is expertly applied and she’s wearing a sleeveless red sheath dress; it hits her in all the right places and shows off her toned arms.
“Wow, Daisy,” Melissa says, as she pours her a second Pinot Grigio. “I didn’t realize you had such great guns.”
“Guns? How’d you know about my guns?” Daisy asks.
Melissa immediately realizes the problem, and says, “I mean your arms. Great definition.”
“Oh, that,” Daisy says. “I lift a little.”
“You’re quiet tonight,” Melissa says. Although she knows she might immediately regret it, she asks, “Everything OK?”
“I guess I’m a little nervous,” Daisy says. “I have a date. He’s meeting me here any minute.”
“Oh nice,” Melissa says, while thinking Well this will be interesting. “Anyone I know?”
“Know of,” Daisy says.
“What? Are you correcting my sentence structure?” This does not sit well with the uber-bright Melissa.
“No. I’m saying you know of him, but don’t know him.”
“Oh,” Melissa says. “Is he a regular from another bar?” The neighborhood bartenders get together every month or so and swap stories about their regulars.
“No, he doesn’t live around here. But he visits. His mother lives in Jenkintown.” Jenkintown is a borough about 10 minutes from Stenny’s.
“Where does he live?” Melissa asks.
“California. He’s between jobs right now so he’s staying with his mom for a few weeks.”
Between jobs, Melissa thinks. Sounds about right for Crazy Daisy. “Wait,” she says. “Why would I know of him? What’s his name?”
“Brad,” Daisy says.
“Brad, Brad, Brad,” Melissa says slowly. “I don’t think I know, or know of, a Brad. What’s his last name?”
“Cooper,” Daisy says.
“Brad Cooper. Brad Cooper. Wait, you’re telling me you’re dating Bradley Cooper?”
“Yes,” Daisy says. “Why so surprised?”
Let me count the ways, Melissa thinks. A bit more kindly, she says, “Just can’t see how your paths could possibly cross.”
“He was in here a couple of weeks ago. You were off that night.”
“Oh fuck me,” Melissa says. “Just my fucking luck.”
Daisy has a smug look on her face; Melissa has a moment of satisfaction as she pictures herself hitting her with a frying pan.
“Well, you’ll get to meet him tonight. I’ll introduce you. He says any friend of mine is a friend of his.”
Melissa checks on the other customers, prepares a few drinks, takes a couple of food orders, and chats with Ray about his grandkids while sharing his French Fries. She heads to the kitchen to pick up a sandwich for Stan, and when she returns, there is a man sitting next to Daisy. She heads over to see what he wants to drink, as she would do for any newly-arrived customer. The fact that he’s Bradley Cooper is just a nice little bonus.
“Melissa,” Daisy says, “I’d like you to meet Bradley. Bradley, this is Melissa. One of Stenny’s finest.”
“Enchanté,” he says.
“Bradley speaks French,” Daisy says.
“Quelquefois. Sometimes,” he says. “May I have a Pessac-Leognant? Haut-Gardere if you have it?”
“No, we don’t have that. How about a Chablis? The house is Sutter Home.”
“Pas mal,” he says. “All right. Excuse me a moment, my love,” he says to Daisy. “Must visit the salle de bain.”
“It’s by the kitchen,” Melissa says. “The kitchioni.”
“Melissa,” Daisy says once he’s out of earshot. “Why are you being rude? He was nice to you.”
Melissa sighs, deeply. “Daisy, I hate to break it to you, but that’s not Bradley Cooper.”
“Of course it is! Didn’t you see his face?”
“Indeed I did. He has about as much resemblance to Bradley Cooper as Randy Quaid does to Dennis Quaid. So maybe it’s his brother, if he has one.”
“I don’t think I could be that easily fooled,” Daisy says. “I have excellent bullshit sensors.”
Melissa refrains from reminding her that she continually confuses Provo with Orem, and vice versa. “Believe what you want, if it makes you happy.”
The faux Bradley returns, and sips his Chablis. “Exquis,” he says. “Exquisite. Just like you, my darling paquerette.”
“That’s French for Daisy,” Daisy says.
“Wave me down if you need anything else,” Melissa says. “We do have French Onion Soup. And French dressing if you want a salad. And French Fries of course.”
Ray and Stan have been watching the conversation from the other end of the bar. Melissa heads toward them and fills them in; she notes the irony of talking about Daisy’s latest craziness with Stan the Nut.
If you like this story, please check out my completed book, “Butts in the Seat”; one reviewer said it was “amusing, entertaining, and provides therapeutic value.”