Green Russell, Larimer Square. 2:47 am, August 9th, 2016

Standing behind the back bar, two mixologists are silently bickering about the cell phone use of the patron seated in the corner booth. Though he has been a model customer, paying cash and tipping his waitress with every round — each time promising that, no no, this one will be my last — he has been inadvertently thumbing his nose at half of the establishment’s six rules since his arrival three hours ago. Maybe on a more lucrative night, such behavior may have gone unnoticed. But given how light this evening’s purse was shaking out to be, someone was going to be the scapegoat for staff anger.

“It’s a grungy sweatshirt. That is not dressing smartly, man!” Though he was whispering, the brick and stone walls amplified the first employee’s otherwise discreet words in a way such that the near-empty bar might as well been a megaphone for staff complaints.

“Just let it go. He’s been cool all night and it’s not like anyone else is complaining about his shirt or his phone. And, frankly, you’re the only one here who takes ‘try something new’ as a directive.”

“Maybe so but, come on, Chinaco Blanco straight? I’m a fucking artist over here and he’s building a pyramid out of those shot glasses. I mean, fuck man, take that shit across the street over to Mynt with the rest of their kind.”

The second bartender twirled his handlebar mustache and checked his pocket watch; his two obvious tells when he was uncomfortable. Denver was a cool city. A progressive city. A desirable city — as was apparent by the new construction projects spanning the landscape from downtown all the way out to Louisville (and beyond). But it was a blended city and, to various extents, outsiders were still sometimes unwelcome.

The patron looked up, caught the first bartender’s eye, smiled, and motioned for another drink. He mouthed a mute but exaggerated ‘thank you’ and went back to his phone.

“Fuck that guy,” still grumbling, “Hey Lin Sue. Nachoman needs another.”

The Nachoman did not look up when his fresh spirit was delivered. He’d been, at best, uninterested in conversations with the staff until now. When Lin Sue came by this time, her blouse cut low and her chest prominently displayed as she placed his drink — she was looking for more than tips from this one — he gave a friendly smile and his same polite “thank you” before returning his attention to the images of green and white men bouncing across a green backdrop of his phone that flickered the dull glow which momentarily exposed the progress of his shot glass pyramid.

“Impressive.” She motioned at the glass mini-structure with her far shoulder — a motion that served mainly as an excuse to present both the size and clutching potential of her cleavage.

The Nachoman looked at the glasses, delicately adjusted one on the sixth tier, and, again, smiled and thanked Lin Sue before his eyes lit up at the sight over her shoulder of the gentleman who’d just entered the establishment.

Fuck it.

— [Door Flies Open] —

“Good evening, gentlemen. A Triple Sec Tennessee Teabagger, if you might.” The sound of the newcomer opening his velcro wallet scratched the eardrums of every other patron in the bar but it was music to the Nachoman’s ears. The newcomer slid three classic one hundred-dollar bills to the first mixologist and continued, “And bring Mark some ice water and cranberry juice. Lots of cranberry juice.” He then eyed the second bartender, placed five bills on the counter, and instructed, “Let’s just go ahead and close this place up for the night.”

The solo flier seated at the bar and the remaining couple camped at the high top near the window would be gone within three minutes.

“♫♫ Hello and thank you for meeting me♫♫…err… ♫♫ Mister Mister Mister Manning♫♫”

Clumsy. Drunk. Insecure. Peyton Manning’s first impression reads were why he was one of the greatest newcomers on the motivational speaking circuit. Not that it took an expert to figure out the motivations of a fallen 1st round pick looking to reinvigorate his career.

“Good to see you, Mr Sanchez, and congratulations are in order. It looks like you’re in a position to enter week one as the Broncos signal caller.”

Peyton sensed the ratio of insecurity to drunkenness rise at the mention of the upcoming season.

“Well, that’s actually what I wanted to speak about with you. This opportunity with the Broncos is a gift from Dios. But I’m concerned, you know, that the elevation is going to take a toll on me by December or January.”

“Son, I know what it’s like to be chasing success. But let me tell you, there’s a life outside of football. You’re making millions as a quarterback but you can make five times that much off the field, without the headache, without the physical toll, and without the insecurity that comes with wondering whether or not Demaryius will get up for the game each week.”

Sanchez just stared at his untouched tequila.

“I’m going to shoot straight with ya, now. Marketing-wise, you’re an attractive latino and an established player. Denver is a playoff team and, so long as Khalil Mack doesn’t put eleven sacks on you this season, you’ll be leading the playoff run. Why you haven’t franchised 37 Taco Bell’s in Colorado yet — well, your agent needs to wake up.”

“I just want to focus on football. The thin air helps me air it out and, I’ll admit, I like that because my arm strength is already beginning to fade. But I’m gassed. I’m from USC. I’ve played for teams at or near sea level my entire career. I’ve tried oxygen and altitude tents and all the tricks. I already feel the elevation beating me down and we’re not even into preseason games yet. How did you do it? How did you, not just acclimate, but condition your health here at Mile High?”

“First, let me give you a tip about the thin air — it wears down opposing DBs. So, late in games, don’t under throw anything because that’s where they’ll be waiting. Second– ”

“I don’t mean to be disrespectful, sir, but can we cut to the chase? I hate Denver. I hate Colorado. I love this opportunity but I don’t plan to resign here. It’s not a secret that you, uhhh, supplemented your program to make it through the last couple years.”

Peyton Manning sat back and smiled. It was the smile of a free man who knew he could not be touched. It was the smile of a man who had beaten the system.

“I’d like to say I’m surprised to hear you say that but Mr Elway tipped me off when he scheduled the meeting. Now, I can say that what worked for me won’t work for you.” He went silent as Lin Sue, without pomp or announcement,  placed a drink in front Manning and a pint of cranberry juice next to the glass pyramid. Mark thanked her. She did not acknowledge.

“It won’t for you, in part, because you’d surely get caught. They’re looking. Just watch how poor of a season Clay is going to have. Never return to the scene of the crime, basically, is my suggestion. You see how the Patriots always kept their cheating fresh? They went from spying to PEDs to equipment tampering to having Aaron Hernandez kill that guy. Get it? Now drink that up.”

Sanchez nodded and, without hesitation, tipped back his cranberry juice.

“See you still got that USC skill there, son. Now listen, there’s only one untraceable product that can help you out but, lucky for you, Broncos wins equals pizza sales so, to an extent, our investments are locked together.”

Sanchez pounded the empty glass on the table top.

“You keep drinking lots of cranberry juice, working hard, focusing, and studying film.” Manning took a sip of his drink, grimaced, and slipped a package across the table, “And I think Christmas will be coming early for both of us this year.”

{fin}