P.S.TIP Big
By Credit Card Chip
Halloween is fast becoming my least favorite holiday, let me explain. Dressed in my standard Chip uniform of matching smoking jacket and ascot, I ambled into the grill’s lively costume bash. Ghosts, goblins and go-go girls adorned the newly remodeled, but closely resembling the old, bar room. It was a party in true PCGC style, loud, spontaneous and fun.
My attorney, Blue Moon Retainer, was shackled to the bar in a C.D.C. jumpsuit looking lawyerly. President Jason, his skin dyed Cheeto orange was wearing a short sleeve shirt with a blond comb over wig, ranting about his right to bare arms. “If you are well groomed and wear a nice watch, flaunt them,” he said.
Over in the corner, standing guard over his wife was a G.I.Joe clad Ray Yo. When asked why he held Tanna’s had with the “Kung Fu Grip”, he said, “Look around Chip, there’s a lot of predators here tonight.” Isn’t that Big Al and SteveO over there dressed like jackles? Frank Moro in the universal mail order preacher outfit of blue jeans and priest collar, agreed and then blessed the room. The king, Swingin’ Mr. Stevens was holding court on the high top cocktail table with his loyal followers. Rod Wyman yelled from across the room to Levi Fountaine, “Where did you get the fantastic Fig Newton costume?” “Forty years at Nabisco has its perks, my boy”, he said.
I stumbled over Bill Feeley’s Fred Flinstone sized foot and spilled the basket of a pretty Little Red Riding Hood. I apologized with a glass of wine, just as the band began to play a slow number. I took her, and with the aid and wonderment of white wine at work, we began to waltz with wings seemingly over the crowded dance floor aloft on the music. Magically, the others below us seem to disappear. Each new number became “our” song. We held snug in a lover’s embrace for much of the evening. It was when the band began to flex it’s muscles on “She’s Not There”, that our reverie was broken.
I sat Red at a table with a hockey player with an east coast accent, while I went to seek the grape. I returned to an empty table with a bottle of Chardonnay and two glasses. I asked the cowboy-ed Bill “The Web” where they went. In a very passable Texan, he said, “Pards, she rode off with that yankee. He left you a note.” The note read, “Chip, I got the girl, you get the tab. P.S., tip big, the service was excellent.”
I slumped into my chair and poured us a glass. Crestfallen, I asked Bill, if the front of his hockey sweater said wolves? “Naw, he drawled, I warned her about them, this one said New Jersey Devils.”
