Wear something nice. Wear something nice. Demmit, you don’t pay me enough to wear something nice. I stuffed my indignation while I stuffed my only white shirt back into my faded slacks. Getting into the Topaz was going to be enough of a struggle without fuming about my lot in life.
My pocket watch, battered though it was, faithfully informed me it was 6:57 as I approached the goon at the door. I could smell the cheap cologne at once.
We made eye contact, him looking perilously down at me. He sized me up in 2 seconds flat and rendered his opinion with a puff of condescending air, as if his monkey suit hadn’t been bought for him.
“Alright,” I said weakly, hands up, “I ain’t no upper-cruster. All I wanna’ do is shuffle in, sit at the bar, and order drink after drink. Come on, do I look like a guy who’s going to make any fuss? Just a spot at the bar is all I ask.”
It must have been a slow night; he waved me in. For once in my life I uttered a prayer of thanks for looking so milquetoast and soft.