Part 11 (2/2)
”Barbie's got her dream phone. Barbie can Google it.”
A bittersweet feeling of pain tinged with regret hit me. Since I'd first met Manny a year ago, he'd called me ”Barbie.” In fact, he'd only just started calling me ”Tressa” during our recent fateful cruise where I'd realized for the first time that Manny DeMarco-Dishman had more than faux feelings for his make-believe bride-to-be.
Once our pretend betrothal ended, and I'd made up my mind to see where things went with a certain ranger-type, I was back to being ”Barbie.”
”'Facilitator: Someone who enables a process to happen; an organizer and provider of services for a meeting, seminar, or other event,'” I read from my smartee-pants phone display. ”How is that different from an event planner?” I asked, not about to let an opportunity to learn more about Manny the mystery man pa.s.s me by.
”Manny doesn't plan. Manny...anti-plans,” he said.
I wrinkled my nose. ”You...anti-plan? You mean like contingency planning?”
He stared out the front of the bus for a long time before his eyes met mine once again in the ma.s.sive mirror.
”Manny prevents the need for contingencies,” he said. He handed me a wrapped candy from a container on the dash, apparently signaling that this subject was closed.
I unwrapped the candy.
”Barbie check out the fridge yet?” Manny asked.
Ah. Manny was trying to divert me with food. Maybe I was getting too close for his comfort.
”Not yet.” I popped the thin, sweet square into my mouth and sighed. Ahh. Quality chocolate.
”Barbie's off her game,” Manny said.
”Oh? Well-stocked, huh?”
Manny gave me a ”what part of luxury did you miss?” look.
”Beer?”
”The good stuff.”
”I'm so there!” I made my way to the kitchen area-moving like an inebriated airline pa.s.senger on their way to the john. I opened the fridge. And almost wet my pants. Bottle after bottle featuring Blue Moon's pale blue label greeted this Bud Lite devotee.
I picked up a bottle. ”Sweet,” I said.
”That's not the good stuff,” Manny said.
I raised an eyebrow. ”It isn't?”
”Check out Tut.”
I frowned. ”Tut?” I checked out the fridge again, pulling out a bottle that featured labels with hieroglyphic-like symbols.
”Tutankhamen Ale,” I read.
”That's the one.”
”I've never heard of it.”
”Barbie wouldn't,” Manny stated.
”What's the big deal with this beer?” I asked.
”Barbie knows the story of King Tut, right?”
”Who doesn't?”
”The recipe comes from Tut's stepmom, Queen Nefert.i.ti's, royal brewing chambers.”
”You're kidding.”
”Manny doesn't kid. Brewing chambers uncovered in a dig contained remains of the Queen's brew.”
”You're kidding.” Wow! Apparently the Queen enjoyed tipping a cold one way back, too.
”Scientists a.n.a.lyzed the beer. Came up with the recipe.”
Holy tomb raider! This brought a whole new meaning to ”handing down the recipe”.
”Then this beer has to cost a pretty penny,” I surmised.
”Try a lot of pretty pennies,” Manny noted.
”Oh? So, how much does a bottle of beer like this run?” I asked.
”Barbie doesn't want to know,” Manny said. ”Barbie would only make herself miserable.”
Ah. The old ”ignorance is bliss” bit. The concept was not...unfamiliar.
”How much?”
”Fifty-two dollars a bottle. If you can get it.”
I almost dropped King Tut.
I gripped Tut with both hands and ever so carefully replaced the ancient of ales and stepped slowly away from the not-so-mini fridge.
”Barbie chicken out?” Manny asked.
More like Barbie could be opening a can of worms if she opened that bottle and developed a taste for the very good stuff.
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