For a beer. Hopefully without interruption.

You have time to kill before your quasi-date with Max at the drive in burger joint, and you feel the need of a beer. A beer in a working class joint. Somewhere without the pretense of the bistro you just left and more importantly without a gaggle of hormonal girls.

You head down the street finding the neon lights of a blue collar tavern several blocks away. With a smile you park the bike and step through the doors, finding a room half full of customers, mostly men, none of them with fancy drinks or fluted glasses in front of them.

You grab a Coors from the bartender and find an empty table, turning your attention to the ballgame on one of the TVs. You've taken your first pull on the beer, and given a sigh of contentment when someone sits beside you. You turn to see a pretty young woman smiling at you as she puts a notebook and a beer on the table in front of her.

"You must be Kyle Hawkfeather. I'm Holly Piper, with the Boston Globe."