PICKING YOUR FRIENDS

I had a somewhat uneventful weekend, unless you consider a series of naps eventful. But, I did venture out Saturday afternoon for a bit, and decided I'd try a little hamburger place - really a pool hall - on Jeff Davis Highway. I don't know why I was in the mood for such an adventure, but anyway, I was. I pass the place several times a week, and have wondered what sort of a honky-tonk it might be.
It's fascinating to just sit and watch the people, and listen to their conversations. "Bubba, you still have that car you're selling for four hundred?" "I'm getting ready to go meet an old friend down the pike, but I had to have me a Bud first."
Why am I fascinated by such mundane things? I'm glad you asked. I really don't know, but I really am.
While I was sitting in the establishment something happened that really seemed to pique the interest and excitement of several of the diners (drinkers). The manager came in with a fresh supply of toothpicks.
It was like a feeding frenzy. "Hey, give me a few of those," one man called out. A woman sitting on the other side of the bar, joined in, "I could use a few of those myself." And before you know it a flock of teeth-pickers had gathered at the bar.
At first, I didn't know what all the excitement was about. I even got up to take a look at what everyone wanted. True, these were those high-class toothpicks that come individually wrapped in cellophane. But, I don't think they were even mint-flavored. Just wooden toothpicks.
You could tell it was a proud moment for the manager as he doled out the toothpicks to his patrons. One of the men must have been an especially good friend of his, or someone he wanted to impress, because he poured out about ten toothpicks in front of the man's spot at the bar. "Here," the manager said, "put a few in your pocket for later."
And, he couldn't have said it with more pride and joy had he been dispensing diamonds and rubies.
I started to ask for one, but I really didn't feel it was my place. I was a stranger in a strange land. Everybody there knew everyone else by their nickname. Of course when 70% are nicknamed "Bubba" it's relatively easy to remember, but no one knew my name.
I debated the matter. Decided I could forego picking my teeth (or, at least do as I usually do, and use a business card) and I just quietly left the establishment. But, I can't wait to go back next Saturday. Maybe I'll be a regular by then. Maybe they'll call me "Bubba." Maybe I'll share a good pick with good new friends.