we want a pitcher (no bellyitchers)

i once wrote a story loosely (and not so loosely too) based on my life as it was then when i wrote that story some years ago. in it, i recounted a version of this episode:

i sat on a barstool next to a redheaded guy and said to him, 'are you here to watch march madness?' cause it was march and there was madness on the televisions above the bartender's head. and this guy, tommy, was watching tv but not too avidly, because he was also simply killing time since he worked as a federal marshall and i guess HQ was nearby that bar. it was after Sept. 11 and his job was to look inside car trunks going into manhattan.

and we got to talking and got to flirting and got to getting busy in a nearby doorway. and he had a boston accent which, apparently, can melt my heart. and we went out a few more times. and then like all good federalos--poof.

so, one night i called and asked him about it since he seemed to dig me.

and tommy said, "you don't want to go out with me, i'm like a middle reliever."