Early Thursday evening at mealtime saw two very different scenes just a few miles apart in San Francisco.
Inside the Cow Palace, Monty and Laura were enjoying themselves hugely. To minimize the time his new bulls would spend in the trailer, Monty had suggested to Laura that they try to get in line early for the barbeque, then go down to the bull pens and she could see his purchases while they were being loaded. Since it would take quite a while to feed all the hungry cattlemen and women who were crowded into the arena, they should be back inside in time for the evening's performance.
At his mealtime, Ranny was in an ugly mood. After his ignominious firing from his job at the Cow Palace, he had gone home, showered for a very long time, and changed into clean clothes. Ignoring the fact that he was now unemployed and would be better conserving his money, he had gone out to his neighborhood working-man's bar which served minimal meals from a scanty menu. He ordered a cheeseburger and fries, then had two quick glasses of draft beer with chaser shots of cheap well bourbon while he waited impatiently for his food. His surly expression and curt tone when he ordered did not encourage the bartender to spend any time conversing at that end of the bar. Besides, the older man, who was also part owner of the place, had been behind the bar on other occasions when this customer had made one of his infrequent visits here, and he remembered the trivial number of coins left as a tip. In a bar like this, drinks were paid for when received, but patrons often waited until they had their last drink before leaving the tip. When the tray of food was passed through from the small greasy kitchen behind, he slid it down the bar in front of Ranny.
Without bothering to say thanks, Ranny grabbed the burger and started wolfing it down. Half-done, he set it down and called for another beer and shot, then splashed ketchup from the bottle in front of him onto his fries. He started picking those up eating them, ignoring the ketchup on his fingers, but his expression showed no enjoyment in his food, only anger. By the time he had eaten half the fries and started on the last of the burger, he had also finished his drinks and impatiently waved at the bartender. Busy talking at the bar's serving station to the well-built young blond waitress in a scoop-necked white T-shirt and tight jeans, the barman wasn't quick enough to suit Ranny, who half rose off his stool to wave one arm furiously while he clenched the remnant of his meal in his other hand. The bartender barely managed to conceal his distaste for this customer, but the fresh drinks were served quickly this time, because he hoped that Ranny would finish his meal and drinks and leave the place. The feeling of depression in that area of the bar was almost palpable, and the bartender liked his place to have a happy clientele, not surly drinkers like this one. But he had to serve one more set of drinks before Ranny stood up unsteadily, tossed on the bar a small handful of some of the change he'd been receiving from his drink and food orders, and lurched out the door. His ordinary drink of choice was just beer, and the unaccustomed addition of the liquor had made him more intoxicated than usual.