Curly bleached blonde ‘do —- sides buzzed…
Skin-tight, distressed boatneck top, with a low enough scoop to show off some of that tasty — and Manly™ — burger meat…
Obligatory skinny jeans and Chuck Taylors…
Without a moment’s hesitation, confidently, like he’s done a hundred times before:
“Three PBR’s.”
Bartender:
“We don’t have it.”
Hipster:
[Look of utter disappointment and confusion. Noticeably rattled. You can see the immediate calculation going on in his head…“Dare I be caught drinking something as bourgie as…a Budweiser?” He regroups, poised just enough to mumble…]
“Bud is, fine.”
His order placed, he shrugs off this initial misstep and falls back into the comfort of his group while the drinks are prepared.
The bartender returns.
Our hipster whips out the plastic.
Bartender:
“Cash only.”
Hipster:
“Uh, oh…okay.”
Back to the pack. Hands struggle down deep into tight, practically vacuum-sealed front pockets for some crumpled up greenbacks.
Just enough.
Phew.
Our hipster takes a cool sip from the unfamiliar bottle, his hand shaking a little, a bead of sweat emerging from his forehead. He turns back into the pack and starts to bop his head to what he’s pretty sure is The Stooges playing on the jukebox.
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