“Oh, yuck,” the guy said.
“What?” I replied frantically, as I tried to serve him a drink.
“It’s them,” he sneered.
“C’mon, I’m busy, just tell me what,” I pleaded.
“Ok, well, it’s your sideburns,” he said disdainfully.
“What about ‘em?” I asked, with a half-laugh.
The customers around him fidgeted, and mumbled incoherently.
“They’re so, so….” he took a deep breath.
“Just say it, “ I demanded.
Lip upturned, he announced, “They’re so ’91.”
A couple of fellow scenesters around him snickered.
Startled, I replied, “Well, then I guess I am, too.”
“Yes, you are,” he said, eyes rolling.
Barely able to contain my rage, I asked, “And you’re having?”
“A pilsner,” he snipped.
I handed it to him, and he walked away, reaching for his cellphone. Desperately, I needed to fire back.
“No Blood for Oil,” I shouted across the crowded space.
All I could see through the mass was the back of his hand through the air, waving dismissively.
Josh Franklin is a writer living in Williamsburg.