The man strode past the two signs and into the Last Stop Tavern. One sign, faded: “No Shirt, No Shoes, No Service.” The other, newer: “Mask Up. Blame the Governor.”
“At last, a customer,” Carl, the tavern owner, thought from behind the bar.
Grimy lights left splotchy shadows across the Last Stop.
“Hmmm,” Carl mumbled. “Didn’t this dude see the sign?”
The owner swallowed a grimace.
“Howdy,” he said.
“Yo,” the man said. “Beer. Tap.”
Carl reached for a glass.
“Glad to see yah, sir. Did you miss the sign at the door?”
“No.”
“Then you know I gotta insist.”
“Really?”
“It’s mandated, man. Please?”
“Where’s my beer?” the man said. “You know, I got my rights. Rights to be comfortable. To my liberties.”
“Hey, I really want to serve you. Blasted virus has killed business. But I can’t risk it.”
“Damn government. Always gettin’ in my face.”
“I hear yah,” Carl said. “And thanks for wearing a face mask.”
“I always mask up.”
Carl let his eyes drop.
“Not down there,” he said. “No pants? No undies? No service.”
