Filed: Saturday Afternoon
Location: Irby’s Tavern, Inner Perimeter
 Mission: Observation (and occasional beer)
 Subject: Human behavior in the Buckhead biome
   Agent: tjv, corner of the bar, laptop camo deployed

— Entry Begins —

1100 Hours:

Doug (Proprietor / Likely Cult Leader)
     enters wearing a shirt that violates at least
     three fabric codes, talking loudly to himself—
                                            or God.
                                     Possibly both. (probably both)

Offers unsolicited tequila to a woman walking her dog.
She declines.
The dog winks at me.

1107:

Tim the Chef ("Irby’s Backbone")
    surfaces from the kitchen like a bearded submarine.

Checks five things at once,
       fixes a wobbly table
        with a salt shaker,
             a coaster,
             and menacing glare.

I suspect he was a field medic in another life.
Definitely once treated a sprained ego with mac 'n cheese.

1130:

The Regulars take their stations.
    Seat One: Baseball Guy (Cubs cap, never smiles)
    Seat Two: Fantasy Football Commissioner (off-season still angry)
    Seat Three and Four: The Couple Who May Be Siblings (unclear, not asking)
    Seat Five through Nine: Soccer Bros (all drinking Guinness, all named Mike)
    Seat Twelve: Me. (nowhere near The Mikes)

Laptop open.
Beer sweating.
Pretending to write code.
Writing this instead.

1200:

First wave arrives—
      families on the patio,
      dogs with names like “Milo“ and “Artemis“,
      kids in cleats kicking everything that isn’t nailed down.

Doug gifts a toddler a beer coaster,
     then tries to hire him as barback.

1230:

Two lost tourists walk in.
    Look like they meant to go to a wine bar.
    Order mojitos.

    Doug assures them the mint is “house-foraged”.
    (It’s from the saddest plant on his windowsill)

1245:

The TVs shift. (soccer over, The Mikes depart)
    NCAA Softball tourney, (Dawgs still in it)
    MLB for me, (Cardinals/Dbacks)
    WNBA here,
    F1 there,
    some rogue soul requests golf.

    Tim sighs like a man who’s fought wars over this.

1300:

Man in sunglasses walks in with a Bluetooth earpiece.

Sits down,
     never speaks to anyone,
     orders a salad,

     gives it the look of a man betrayed.

Leaves a generous tip.
Mystery unresolved.

1315:

A couple walks in.
  She’s over it.
  He thinks ordering “just one more IPA” will fix everything.
  Spoiler: it does not.

1400:

A group of guys in matching golf shirts enter.
  All named Chris.
  I take no further notes.

1430:

Chef Tim emerges, again,
     now wearing a towel
     for no clear reason.

Someone says “you have to try the Brussels sprouts.”
        I nod respectfully. (I will not, but Kev approves)

Doug tries to light something on fire.
Tim quietly stops him.

1445:

Bar napkin count: 47.
 Screens watched: 9.
  Pints consumed: classified (pending audit)

— Field Note —

She’s not here today.
But she’s in every glance I throw at the door,
             every laugh I want her to hear,
             every quiet sip I take too slow.

Coal would’ve chased the golf guys.

She would’ve side-eyed the tourists.

I would’ve told her the story
about the toddler and the coaster.

But for now—
    just me,
    my barstool,
    and Irby’s strange parade…

    cataloging the local wildlife one sip at a time.

— Report Ends —