Bob walked into a bar and said to the bartender, “I’ll have a martini. Hold the vermouth. Hold the olive. Hold the gin. Hold the glass.”

Bob walked into a bar with his junior and said to the bartender, “I’ll have a martini.” The junior said, “Make that two.” The bartender put two martinis on the bar. Bob said, “I’ll have another.” The bartender cracked the silver shaker back open. “Let’s make four,” his junior said. The bartender shook gin through ice. Bob said, “You know what, I’ll have one of those too.” The bartender cracked open a jar of olives. The junior looked at Bob, and then he looked at the bartender as he put down the martinis, “You know what?” The bartender said, “What?” The junior said, “I’ll have a martini.” Bob said, “Let’s make that two again.” The junior looked at Bob and then understood something.

Bob walked into a bar and said to the bartender, “What’s in a martini before you make it?” 

Bob walked into the bar and said, “I’m twenty years sober, what do you recommend? I want to try something new.” The bartender said, “An NA beer.” Bob looked into the bartender’s eyes and said, “Send me to the other bartender.” The other bartender came over and said, “What seems to be the problem?” Bob said, “I’m ten years sober, I want to try something, what do you recommend?” The other bartender said, “A martini.” Bob said, “I’ll have a martini.” The bartender made Bob a martini. Bob looked at the martini, which is to say, he drank it. Bob burped.

Bob walked into a bar and said to the bartender, “I’ll have a martini.” The bartender said, “Richard Nixon was the thirty-seventh president.”

I wrote this all while I was drinking. I’m still drinking. I’m standing at a polished wooden shape, and here it comes, the martini glass. The olive. I work in advertising. One of my accounts is the Martini and Rossi company. I’m writing this while I’m drinking, and my name’s Bob, by the way.

Bob said, “Hey. Look there. Do you see the red wedge of pimento set into the socket of the green olive like a pupil into an eye?”

“Would you like a water,” the bartender said.

Bob said, “Well buddy, that’s your prerogative. By the way, do you know anyone who drinks vermouth? Like straight up, vermouth? Does anyone order that? I read about somebody drinking vermouth in a Somerset Maugham novel. Do you know who Somerset Maugham is?”

“No, I don’t think I can serve you another,” the bartender said.

“Somerset Maugham, his book Ashenden,” Bob said, “was one of the literary bases of James Bond.”

Bob walked into a bar. He ordered a martini. He picked up the martini by the stem, like a geometric glass flower, and carried it to another bar. The bartender turned, and said to the unfamiliar glassware, “The fuck is this?” Bob handed the martini to the bartender. “I love you,” Bob said. Bob walked into a bar. Bob ordered a martini. Bob walked out of the bar. The bartender put the martini on the bar, and, hours later, before leaving, turned off the lights. The martini sat on the bar, in the dark. Bob walked into a bar. Bob ordered a martini. He walked out of the bar. The bartender wiped down the bar, and the tables, and the glasses. He got to the martini, and plucked the olive out with his index finger, and thumb, and ate it. Did the bartender afterwards drink the martini? Bob walked into a bar. He ordered a martini. The bartender placed the martini on the bar. Bob turned around, walked and he made it as far as the door before the bartender yelled, “Hey!” Bob turned around, lifted his hand, and shouted back, “Hello!”