Out of habit-and he had a lot of them-Larry Zimmerman went into the preflight hospitality lounge.
When his ass hit the seat, a server recognized him both by face and frequency, winked and gave him a thumbs up.
As she spun toward the service bar, he knew she’d return with a beer and a double shot of bourbon.
He panicked like the time he was late for an Almost Sunny callback.
He didn’t know her name.
He wasn’t gonna yell.
Standing and rushing toward the bar, he was too late.
The bartender was opening the beer on a wall mounted opener while pouring the double with his right.
Goddammit.
The bartender saw Larry and smiled.
“Shutup, Quincy, The Packers couldn’t beat a juvenile delinquent who stole their wallet.”
The bartender had recited one of his character’s lines from Well Wishes and laughed from the memory.
Larry smiled. It wasn’t a fake smile, but it was augmented.
The server only had to take two steps to hand Larry the drinks he didn’t want but wanted desperately but hated but couldn’t whip across the pleasant blue room in the far corner of the airport.
“May I have an energy drink too, please?”
“Regular or sugar free?” the server asked and Larry almost didn’t answer, admiring the confidence in his own voice, asking for something he didn’t truly want.
The actor in him had kicked in. He was someone else, not the guy who knew he couldn’t touch swallow these drinks without reinviting the mayhem.
He sat at one of the deep, plush chairs nearest the door to the lounge.
He had fallen asleep in these chairs more than once, awoken by sweet people, one of whom knew he might have missed his flight to the Emmy’s.
Celia Lyons won that year. He barely remembered the afterparty, except for almost leaving with her statuette and her publicist.
The beer and bourbon sat on the silver table next to the chair.
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