The Brooklyn Rail

“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.