I went to my favorite seaside saloon and my friend the barkeep asked me, “What’ll you have, Tom?”
Just then, my phone rang and I had to answer it; it was my boss calling. “Give me a sec,” I told the bartender. But he was impatient and kept asking what I would drink. Twice more I repeated my request for him to wait, using the same words each time.
Before I was done with my ‘phone call, the bartender set a glass down in front of me. I was listening to my boss, but I lifted the glass and took a sip. It was sticky-sweet and tasted of oranges.
“Sol,” I told him when I got off the phone, "You’re too damn literal. I’ll have a draft beer. You can take this damn Triple-Sec out of here."
“What should I do with it, Tom?” Sol wanted to know.
“Just dump it into the sand.”
Later on I saw the cocktail by the sidewalk, nearly being lapped up by the tide. I should have known when I asked Ralph to put the Secs on the beach.
I grabbed up that little umbrella and returned it to the bartender with a note in Spanish: “Para Sol.”