Fourteen Beers at Chili's

Page 10

There's no way you're going to turn down the chance to serve your own beer. The uniform might be a tight squeeze, but you're willing to give it a shot.

"Where's the break room?" you whisper back.

Fabien nods his head toward a small hallway in the back of the restaurant. "It's past the bathrooms. My locker is the one with a picture of Timothee Chalamet on it."

"Timo- who?"

"The hunk with the fluffy hair and chiseled jaw. I'm sure you'll figure it out."

Don't people normally put photos of their crushes on the inside of their lockers? You aren't here to judge Fabien's decor choices. You're here to get fourteen beers, and that uniform is your golden ticket!

"I'll, uh, I'm going to use the restroom," you say to nobody in particular before slipping from your chair.

Crossing the restaurant, you go down the small hallway and pass the men's room. Hesitantly, you reach out to grab the door handle to the break room. You don't make a habit out of trespassing, but this opportunity is too good to pass up. The worst they could do is kick you out. You aren't stealing anything, considering Fabien gave you permission to take his uniform. Drinking the beer without paying is technically stealing, but you conveniently ignore that.
You take a deep breath and open the door.

The break room is nothing special, and thankfully, it's empty. A big fold-out table with metal chairs sits in the center of the room. The walls are lined with lockers; only one of them has a picture on the outside. Held up with a red heart magnet is a picture of a young man. Whether he is a fluffy-haired hunk with a chiseled jaw is up to interpretation. You decide he fits the description and open the locker.

Now you know why Fabien had to put the picture on the outside. The inside of the door is stuffed with so many pictures of celebrities it looks like a gossip magazine. You recognize none of them, of course. They all sort of look the same to you.

The shelves are much neater than the door, containing only the uniform. Holding it up to yourself, you're dismayed to find it is even smaller than you imagined. The tag said it is an extra small, but you are a solid large. Make that an extra large if you had pizza and beer the night before. Like Fabien's, the other lockers in the room don't have locks either. You could search for a bigger uniform.

No. That would be stealing. You can't trespass and steal. The extra small uniform will have to do.
You quickly strip down to your boxers and stuff your clothes in Fabien's locker. The black slacks barely fit over your thicc thighs. The seams bulge as you pull the pants over your booty. They can hardly contain your scrumptious cake. There's not a chance on this earth that you'll be able to button them, so you leave the fly wide open, exposing your slightly hairy belly. The red polo shirt barely slides over your shoulders. One wrong move and you'll bust out of it Hulk style. The only thing that fit reasonably well is the black visor. You pull it down low, trying to cover your face as much as you can. You decide to leave Fabien's nametag behind so he won't get in trouble.
Surveying yourself in the mirror in the corner of the room, you decide looking like a can of biscuits popped open in a hot car is the price you're willing to pay for free beer.

You strut back into the dining room like you fully belong there. Acting confident is the only way this scheme will work. You march straight to the bar and slip through the little swingy door before anyone can tell you otherwise. The bartender barely looks in your direction as you make your way to the beer taps. Looking at the all the metal knobs, you realize you have no idea which one is the dollar beer.

Good thing it doesn't matter.

You grab a pint glass from under the bar and go down the line, putting a little from each tap into your cup just like you did with the soda fountains at McDonalds when you were a little kid. The frankenbeer concoction is delicious, and you down it in one mighty gulp. As good as it tastes, it took too long to make, and you know your time is limited. You park yourself at the Natty Light tap and get to work.

You lose count after you hit your seventh pint. No longer able to remember how many beers you had at the table, you hope you hit lucky number fourteen. Something deep down in your soul says you have, and you feel at peace. Whatever happens with finals is of no consequence to you. Future you can deal with that. Your chest and head feel warm and tingly from the sweet embrace of the beer. Beer always has your back. Beer will never fail you. Not like Professor Higgins. That bitter old man lived to watch students squirm as he passed back their tests. You remember the smirk on his face as he handed back your last midterm, marked so much with red ink you couldn't see the questions underneath anymore.

"Fuck you, Professor Higgins!" You slam your empty pint glass in the sink and skulk out from behind the bar, only to be intercepted by a manager.

"Sir, where did you get that uniform?" Her nose crinkles as she catches a whiff of you. "Have you been behind the bar drinking? I'm going to have to ask you to leave immediately."

"I got this uniform from Timothee Chalamet," you answer. Your words slur and jumble together like a different language.

"Timo- who? You know what? It doesn't matter. Just get out before I call the police."

You don't have to be told twice. The bros whoop and cheer as you exit the restaurant, clearly impressed by the stunt you managed to pull off. The night air is cold against your bare belly, so swollen and round with beer you look like Homer Simpson. You rub it triumphantly.

They didn't even make you pay your bill!

At least fourteen beers down and fourteen dollars still in your wallet, you stumble your way back to campus. It wasn't the most dignified way to go about it, but the ends justify the means. You are triumphant at the small cost of your dignity.

END.

BEER COUNTER: AT LEAST FOURTEEN