The Nice Glass

We see the exterior of a trendy LA pub.  It looks faded and drear, but the line outside says otherwise.  At the head of the line is a man dressed against the chill of the night in a trenchcoat, with a wide-brimmed hat shading his features.  His hands are in his coat pockets as he is let in.  We hear his thoughts as he looks around the crowded establishment...

'It's hot in here, like a greenhouse,'  [He unbuttons his coat, scanning the room. His face is still not clearly visible to us.]  'but with a decided lack of tomatoes.'

He moves to an open spot at the bar, next to a tall man in a baseball cap.  The bartender, a 20-something woman with piercings, comes over...

'Can I get you anything?', she asks, more with her eyes than words given the noise of music and chatter.

Now we see his face.  Not handsome and not as rugged as we expected.  More like George Costanza than Sam Spade. The voice, however, is pure noir.

'Stella, draft'

'Sorry, we don't have it in draft, only bottle.'

'What do you have, sweetheart?' he grimaces, annoyed.

The tall man to his right chimes in...

'Try the Peroni.  It's good' he says, sipping the last of a manhattan.

'Sure. I'll take a Peroni', our man concedes. 

The bartender brings him the beer in a plain glass. 

'You'll like that', ballcap man declares. [he drains his drink and gestures to the bartender] 'In fact, I'll take one too.'

The bartender is attentive.  She brings him his beer quickly, and in a tall, fluted, specially-engraved, Peroni glass.  Our man looks askance, enforced by a slight eyebrow rise and a tightening of lips. The contrast between his glass and ballcap's is blatant, and galling.

'Hey lady, what's with the glass?' our man - call him 'Sam', asks, pointing to ballcap's drink.

'Yeah, why didn't you give my friend here the nice glass?' chimes in ballcap - call him 'Alfie'

'Oh, we were out of clean Peroni glasses when I poured yours' explains the bartender - call her 'Jules'.

'Fair ... enough' says Sam, hesitantly, shrugging slightly and resuming his scan of the pub crowd, after a long pull on his beer.

Sam sees a packed throng, about equal numbers men and women, with the women in pairs or groups of three.  The women look older, on average, than most of the men, but not by much.  Late twenties to early thirties would be about right.  Now that he's had a sip or two, he can see there are more than enough 'tomatoes' in this 'greenhouse'.  But he's not harvesting, he has a nice enough farm at home he thinks (and we hear in voice-over).  

Alfie is not so restricted, it would seem...

Alfie:  Nice group, tonight, don'tcha think?

Sam: Huh? Sure, I guess.

Alfie: You guess?  Are you dead, man?  Look around.  In fact, look over there. [he points to a Barbara Hershey look-a-like sandwiched between two nondescript men]

Sam: Cute. Your type?

Alfie: She's brilliant. Dark and troubled.

Sam: Taken, though.

Alfie: Tonight, maybe.  There's always tomorrow. [He grins wickedly, turning to Sam and pulling his cap brim down a bit]

Sam finishes his beer, and shoves the empty glass towards Jules, the barmaid.

Jules [noticing, but barely...]:  Another?

Sam: Please. 

Jules takes his old glass and comes back with a new one, freshly-filled.   The glass is as plain as the first.

Jules: And how about you? [asking Alfie, as she sees his glass is newly empty]

Alfie: Definitely - thanks. 

Jules goes away and comes back with Alfie's Peroni, again in the nice glass. Sam is flummoxed.

Sam: What the hell...? [gesturing to Alfie's glass] What am I, chopped liver? [but Jules is gone already - out of earshot]

Alfie: I'm lucky tonight. 

Sam: Yeah, right.  I'll bet you are lucky every night.

Alfie: What'dya mean? 

Sam: She likes you. Simple.

Alfie sidles up a little closer to Sam, twists his ballcap around brim backwards and circles his face with hands and then gestures to the crowd.  Now we can see he looks a little like Brad Pitt. A taller, thinner, mid-life Benjamin Button Brad Pitt.

Alfie:  It has nothing to do with liking me or not, my friend.  I'm lucky, but I also try to look like I fit in. One of the crowd, ya' know.

Sam: What are you sellin'?  You are my age or thereabouts, for sure.  And that's about a lifetime beyond these kids. What do you mean 'fit in'!

Alfie: Clothes.  Attitude.  I look and project 'older, wiser, but with it'.  You project 'musty, dusty, and Dad.'  Not that 'Dad' can't be good, in the right context. But so 'last century'.

Sam: You are one sick chicken, friend. [he squints at Alfie, then turns back to his drink. Alfie won't let him off that easily and is still on his soapbox]

Alfie: All you need is a change - a makeover, if you don't mind me calling it that. Just enough to make you look as 'with it' on the outside as I'm sure you are on the inside.

Sam: Like what, Mr. Blackwell, do tell.

Alfie: Scoff if you must, but a more youthful set of rags and a sage cut - you do have hair under that hat, don't you? If not, then a better hat - like mine. Anyway, that's all you need to ...

Sam [interrupting]: What? To get the nice glass?

Alfie: Yes, that, and more, mate. That and more. [he winks and twists his cap back brim forward and cinches it down. The Brad Pitt look recedes with the change to be replaced by Christian Bale.]

Alfie stops to drain his glass. Sam does the same, and this time it's timed right for Jules to notice.  Alfie gestures for two more, and Jules is back quickly with two brimming glasses.

'Well I'll be a son of a ...' croaks Sam, looking at his plain, ordinary, glass, and then at Alfie's fluted, special specimen. 'She did it again!' he exclaims, looking Alfie straight in the eye, after a fierce glance spiked towards Jules, now in fast conversation with Hershey-girl.

'See what I mean, mate?  It's the look and the attitude, the look and the attitude' says Alfie in response to Sam's gaze.  'But not to worry, ' he continues more softly, seeing daggers, or perhaps a shiv made from a sharpened butter knife,  in Sam's eyes, 'I have friends who can help you.'

Alfie pulls a card from out of his pocket and scribbles on it, then hands the card to Sam.

'There you go, mate.  Call those numbers and you will be on the right path.'

Sam hesitates, glances over at Hershey and Jules, then sighs and takes the card.  Hell, he may not be interested in harvesting, he thinks (and we hear in voice over), but it would be nice to be seen as a worthy farmer, at least.

'Thanks, pal.  I'll think about it.'  [Sam pockets the card]

'You do that, mate ... you do that.' says Alfie, giving Sam a long look, head tilted slightly to his right as if to better focus. [now he looks like Michael Caine circa 'The Ipcress Files']

Sam slams back the remaining Peroni in his glass, drops twenty and a tip (a small one) on the bar, nods to Alfie, then turns, buttons his coat, and shoulders his way out the door.

He's only a couple of blocks away, when Alfie leaves, Hershey-girl on arm.  Outside, Alfie takes off his cap and we can see he looks now like Rutger Hauer.  They both move quickly to an immaculately restored and preserved, black BMW R75.  Alfie dons helmet and swings a leg over, Hershey-girl snuggles up close, wearing the spare helmet Alfie always has on hand for this purpose, and they roar off into the night, right past our Sam.

Sam turns at the noise and sees the passing duo, then looks up at the heavens, the light from a nearby street lamp giving us a clear view of his face, which now resembles Rodney Dangerfield.

'Nice glass' he says, out loud, fingering the card in his pocket.

Meanwhile, back in the bar, Jules has transformed into Janine Garofalo, and, spotting Gary Shandling sidling towards the bar, prepares the plain, ordinary glass...