Summer Job   “. . . And a very wet martini,” I said. My friend the bartender laughed, rolled her eyes — “Alcoholic’s excuse for a drink,” she sighed, reaching for the gin, and a flush of dread   flared inside me. So, I thought — so. I took the glass, balanced it on my tray, and bore it back to the dining room with a beer, back to my waiting regulars who looked   at me with pride, looked at one another amused to be my guests, my patrons. They loved this rite, loved to see me play at work — college boy serving his dad, his mother.     © Michael Fleming Brattleboro, Vermont November 2009