3.
"I suppose I ought to thank you," Raymond said, shaking off his borrowed umbrella before stepping inside the comparative warmth and security of The Drunken Clam. The weather had soured quickly; the sound of sardines hitting the sidewalk could still be heard after the door had closed behind them.
Brian surveyed the establishment. It was, as he had hoped, all but empty; Horace, the bartender, was seated behind the bar reading a book. Depositing his umbrella in a bucket beside the door, Brian sidestepped the thrashing fish that had been tracked inside and walked to the bar.
Horace coughed, extinguishing his cigarette into an ashtray as he slipped the book beneath the bar and out of sight. "The usual, Brian?" he asked.
Before the dog had a chance to reply, a martini had materialized in front of him. He accepted it gratefully. "Thanks Horace. You have no idea how much I need this. It's been quite a day."
"What about your friend?" Horace nodded at Raymond, still standing near the doorway. He seemed engrossed in the delicate act of removing a squashed herring from the sole of his shoe, intent on accomplishing the task in a manner that allowed him to retain some shreds of his dignity. It was understandably difficult.
Brian mentally weighed his chances of finding a satisfactory Cabernet Sauvignon at an establishment with a large fluorescent clam flickering above the door. "He'll have a beer."
By the time Raymond had finished with his shoes, a pint of Pawtucket Patriot Beer was waiting for him on the count. He stared pointedly at it on the chance it would go away. "What is that?"
"That," said Brian, finishing his martini, "is beer, a fermented alcoholic beverage made from malted grain. You probably encountered it in college."
"I know that," Raymond said tersely. He'd had beer before, of course, perhaps most memorably once or twice during his brief but celebrated stint in the armed forces—occasions he'd spent the past thirteen years pretending had never happened. After all, the glass looked dirty. "You don't expect me drink that, do you?"
Brian laughed before returning to his drink. "Real man of the people, you are."
"Oh, be quiet," Raymond grumbled, reluctantly bringing the stein to his lips. It wasn't as terrible as all that, he supposed.
And they drank, and all was well with the world.