A Brief Bar and Pickle Jar Saga

MANDY, BEHIND THE BAR, couldn't get the lid off a jar of pickles. I, sitting at the bar, offered to try. I, the would be hero, at sixty years old and one hundred and seventy pounds. Ignoring me, the bar keep with the flaming red hair handed the jar to the real big guy on the end.It was a Mason jar, the pickles home grown. Suddenly insane, seeing the big guy twist and turn to no avail, I got all bouncy, raised my hand, and repeated:" me! me!", like some fifth grader with the right answer. Meanwhile, big guy number one passed the jar to big guy number tow, to take his best shot. By the time big guy number three had failed to budge the lid, I was all over the bar stool, exhorting, pleading for my chance, sipping my second or third draw. Short little intellectual runts don't get a chance, not in country bars full of hard working blue collar men. When cowboy number four had taken his unsuccessful turn, my bleating had reached a fever pitch. Cowboy number five meekly handed the jar back to hot Mandy, who began beating on it with the handle of a butter knife. Again, no go. With all other possibilities exhausted, she handed it to me, as an after thought. Without the slightest difficulty I spun the lid right off, and handed it back to her. Immediately all the strong men started yelling excuses: 'no way he did that!". "She musta loosened it before she handed it to him!" Anything to save their strong armed faces, and to avoid giving credit to a little guy who probably shouldn't even have been in the running. Mandy just laughed. Dude next to me at the bar looked at me, and said nothing. I looked right back at him, and said: "maybe all y'all loosened that S.O.B. before I got a hold of it. maybe not. One thing's for sure, we'll never know." I was trying to fit in, to talk like them ole boys. I don't think it worked. I walked out, strutting, flexing my modest muscles.