The Next Night At The Shake It Up Bar And Grill - [HJ]

With Lieutenant Lawrence Moonwatcher now the Command Duty Officer, First Officer Jawanza Hammer headed into town. He skipped dinner onboard ship, planning on eating something ashore later. Not that the food was not good, Petty Officer Dawson was an excellent cook. But like countless men who had gone before him that lived on ships, when in port, he wanted to try something different. Not necessarily better, just different.

But first he was headed for a drink or twelve. When he got into one of the cabs waiting outside the gate, he asked the man to take him to a milk bar. Glancing up into the rear-view mirror, the driver judged his passenger a more likely candidate for the Shake It Up than the Helping Hand.

On Earth, a milk bar referred to a small convenience store that sold newspapers and magazines, and people could purchase fast foods such as fish-and-chips or hamburgers. Sometimes known as 'malt shops' or 'delis'. On Meta Carpals V, a milk bar, while not actually a 'pick up' joint, was a place where if two people became 'frisky' and the female happened to wind up giving the male a handjob under the table or in a stall in the men's room, everyone was supposed to pretend not to notice.

After all, on Meta Carpals V, a handjob was like a handshake on Earth.

Although still early, the Shake It Up had a fair-sized crowd. Some sitting in booths, others at the bar. One of the two pool tables was in use. Almost as soon as Hammer sat down at the bar, two young women slid up on the stools on either side of him. They looked to be in their early twenties, if that. Probably more like eighteen or nineteen.

"You're African, right?" the skinny, gum-chewing redhead to his right asked him.

"No," Hammer answered. "I'm American. I was born in California."

Rolling her eyes, she came back with, "Yeah. But your ancestors were from Africa."

Nodding a thanks to the bartender when he put a glass of draft down in front of him, Hammer told the girl. "My ancestors were from Georgia."

Squirming around on her barstool, the redhead said, "Well, you are black. Right?"

Holding his hands out before him, looking at the backs of them as if seeing them for the first time, he slowly answered. "Well, what do you know. Yes. I am black. Or maybe . . . maybe more of a sable than actually black."

It was then that he felt a hand on his left thigh, and jerking his head around, he saw a slightly chubby black-haired girl was leaning on the bar. Her elbow was propped up on the dark wood, the side of her face resting in the palm of her left hand, while her right hand rested on his thigh. "We've always heard that African . . . er, black . . . men are . . . somewhat blessed. Is that true?"