Apparently I’m now the proud owner of a bar tab (maybe a large one), at the Dinghy Dock Bar, in Sint Maarten.That’s right…I have a tab at a bar I haven’t been to (yet), 1,600+ miles from Greenville, SC where I live, (now).
Now, I’m no stranger to international bar tabs. I still can’t go back to Marbella, but at least I was there that night. I know this because when I woke up the next morning on the train to Madrid, I found a crumpled up cocktail napkin in the front pocket of my jeans. It was from a seedy dive bar on the backstreets of the Puerto Banús (great place!) 'Someone' had written on the back of the napkin; Don’t forget to wake up Dale! Looking around the 1st Class couchette that Anita had reserved for the three of us, and seeing just the two of us, it was evident that ‘someone’ had forgotten to wake up Dale! Oops! muwawaahaha!
But back to Amber at the Dinghy.
All of this began with my friend - let’s just call him, 'Bob Shmeggert'. It wouldn’t be right to tell you his real name and then lose sleep because I exposed him, (and his unlicensed dog), to any number of Federal banking and tax agencies and probably INTERPOL as well.
Anyway, against all odds, Hurricane Irma, and other existential crises, Mr. Shmeggert built for us, his best friends, a fantastic home away from home on the Dutch side of Sint Maarten.
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| The pool, located just outside the formal guest bedroom known as, 'The Monkey Room' is a mixture of Blue Agave Tequila, some water for buoyancy, and a variety of liquified cannabis distillates. |
And who did Mr. Shmeggert meet at that bar? That’s right; he met Amber.
And what happened next is admittedly a matter of conjecture, but it’s based on many, many years of empirical observations.
A man walks into a bar, hungry & thirsty...and likely zonked.
All he wants is a tasty burger, some cold beer and a game on satellite TV. [Note: what happens next is what we call: The Matter of Conjecture, but trust me when I say it’s 99% certain)
As he finishes his burger, some people sit down next to him. He overhears one of the girls ordering the exact same giant burger he just finished. This would be, Amber.
Seeing his opening, Shmeggert suavely leans over to her and says, “I bet you can’t!”
She’s like, “WTF?!”
[Note: remember, this is what I imagine the conversation to have been]
HIM: I bet you can’t get your whole mouth around that burger!
HER: The hell I can’t!
HIM: Care to make it interesting??
HER: Whaddya got big boy?
HIM: If you can do it, then I lose the bet, and Murph will buy you a round.
HER: And if I can’t??
HIM: Then I win and you owe me a BJ! [Note: this is probably 99.99% accurate].
HER: You’re on!
HIM: {starts daydreaming of his winnings}
Long story short, out comes her ginormous burger. Annnd….
Turns out this woman was born with some kind of magical, double hinged mandible - a hamburger black hole you might say. Good for sooo many things. She basically took out half the burger in one giant chomp!
Mr. Shmeggert is stunned & amazed!
This cracks up everybody, particularly Amber, who obviously sandbagged Mr. Shmeggert and now rightly expects her complimentary round: compliments of moi!
LET’S FAST FORWARD TO THE CONVERSATION WITH THE WAITRESS AND THE OWNER…
You know how it works; There was lots of backslapping and good natured ribbing about Amber and her Magic Mouth.
The waitress stopped by to remove the remnants of the demolished burger and casually asked, “Another round?”
Amber waved her arm above her head in a circle - the international sign for, “Drinks for everybody!”
A few minutes later, out comes the tray of drinks to which Amber says, pointing at Shmeggert, “It’s on him!”
To which he says, “It’s on Murph!”
In my years of professional experience with waitresses (servers, waitrons) one thing is certain: They HATE IT when customers start jacking them around with who’s paying! And this one was no exception and decided to simply have the owner straighten things out (this further cracked up Amber ((see photo above))
The owner was cool. Bob assured him that I’d be down there “next month” at which time he bring me in and I’d settle up (this strategy only works on a small island where there’s no chance of Bob escaping) The owner agreed to this with one condition. He handed Bob the menu, and read him the fine print at the bottom (see below) which Bob agreed to on my behalf.
So now I owe not just the 15% gratuity, but the Asshole Tax as well!
With all those messy details ironed out, Bob invited all of them out onto the deck for a celebration, on me, in my honor!
What a guy!!
