The local dive bar, a dimly lit haven of gleaming mahogany and flickering neon beer signs, has long been a stage for the quirks of the human condition. It’s where stories are forged over lukewarm drafts, and where the line between genius and chaos is often a blurry one. On a chilly Friday evening, the heavy oak door creaked open to reveal Billy-Bob, a man whose grin stretched wide enough to rival the crescent moon. He swaggered up to the bar with the self-assurance of someone who had just won the lottery, slammed his hand down on the counter, and bellowed, “Bartender! A round for everyone! It’s on me!”
The bartender, Sal, a man who’d witnessed everything from wedding proposals to bar brawls, raised an eyebrow as he lined up the glasses. “Well, well, Billy-Bob, you’ve got that spark tonight. Did you strike oil in your backyard, or finally get your ex-wife to return the truck?”
Billy-Bob threw his head back and laughed heartily. “Better than that, Sal! Much better. I’ve just landed a job. The city hired me for a special role—I’m the new guy in charge of emptying parking meters. I start Monday!” Sal, ever the pragmatist, nodded and congratulated him, thinking it was a steady, respectable gig for a man who had spent years hunting for his “true calling.” Drinks were poured, and the bar raised a toast to Billy-Bob’s newfound direction.
Come Monday evening, the bar was quieter than usual until the door was flung open with a force that made the hinges groan. Billy-Bob strode in, looking like a conqueror returning from a victorious battle. His pockets jingled with the sound of heavy coins. “Sal!” he hollered. “Two rounds for the house! Let’s get the drinks flowing!”
Sal chuckled as he began pulling taps. “I’m guessing your first day on the job went pretty well. If you’re this fired up after just eight hours, I can only imagine how you’ll react when that first paycheck lands in your mailbox in two weeks.”
Billy-Bob’s face froze. His jaw dropped, and a look of pure shock washed over him. He dug into his pockets, pulled out two large handfuls of shiny quarters, and stared at them in utter amazement. “Wait a second,” he muttered, his voice full of awe. “You mean they’re actually going to pay me on top of all this?”
As Billy-Bob pondered the unexpected fortune, across town at the “Corner Tavern,” a comedy of errors was unfolding of its own. This quirky local joint was a marvel of design, with three entrances: one on East Street, one on North Street, and a grand double-door right on the corner. It was meant to be practical, but to a man thoroughly inebriated, it was a spatial nightmare.
A regular who’d spent most of the afternoon with bourbon as his closest companion stumbled through the East Street entrance, staggering toward the bar. The bartender, a no-nonsense type, took one look at him and said, “Not tonight, pal. You’ve had enough. Out you go.”
The drunk grumbled, turned on his heel, and lurched back out into the cool night. Confused and now rejected, he wandered down the sidewalk and spotted another door. “Aha!” he muttered to himself, “Here’s a fresh start.” He entered the North Street door, only to find the same bartender glaring at him. “I told you two minutes ago—you’re done for the night. Get out or I’ll call a cab.”
The man staggered backward and found his way to the third entrance. Determined not to be thwarted again, he straightened his tie and marched in, but when he saw the bartender for the third time, he stopped cold. He rubbed his eyes, stared at the man behind the bar, and threw his hands up in exasperation. “What in the name of all that’s holy? Do you own every bar in this town?”
But the most surreal tale of the night was unfolding several blocks away at the city hospital, where the stakes were much higher—and more personal. A man, known for his extreme modesty and shyness, had been admitted for a battery of diagnostic tests. The preparation for the tests had left his digestive system in total chaos. After several frantic, heart-racing sprints to the bathroom that turned out to be false alarms, the man’s nerves were frayed.
When he felt the next rumble, he decided to play a dangerous game of chicken with his own body, convincing himself that it was just another false alarm. But nature had other plans. In a shocking betrayal of his bodily functions, he filled his hospital bed with a spectacular mess.
Overcome by a wave of embarrassment so intense it almost drove him to madness, the man lost all sense of reason. In a panic, he leapt from the bed, grabbed the soiled sheets in a frantic bundle, and hurled them out the open fourth-story window, hoping to erase the evidence of his shame.
At that precise moment, the same drunk, still nursing his grudge against the bartender’s monopoly, was staggering past the hospital. Muttering to himself, he walked down the sidewalk when suddenly, a heavy bundle of white fabric came plummeting from the sky, engulfing him completely.
Thinking he was under attack by a vengeful spirit, the drunk began to scream, wildly flailing his arms and punching into the fabric as if fighting for his life. He spun in circles, cursing and grappling with the tangled, wet sheets, until they finally slid off his shoulders and fell to the ground in a heap at his feet.
Gasping for breath, he stood still, staring down at the pile of fabric, a mix of terror and satisfaction on his face. A hospital security guard, who had witnessed the entire strange scene from his shack, came rushing over. He looked at the disheveled man, then at the suspiciously-smelling pile of fabric on the sidewalk. “What in the world is going on here?” the guard demanded.
The drunk, still focused on the pile at his feet, wiped sweat from his brow and replied with surprising calm. “I’m not entirely sure, officer, but I think I just beat the living hell out of a ghost.”