The V.I. Hooter's Experience

Over the last few weeks, I've been hanging out with a new friend, Stephen. We work similar hours on island -- I'm a late-night sports writer and he told me his job is so top-secret that I needed security clearance just to buy him a beer.

Anyway, the kid is hilarious. He reminds me of The Pheonix, a fellow thru-hiker I met last summer while hiking the Appalachain Trail.

We've exchanged a few stories about living on St. Thomas while leaning against the bar at Sib's, another local establishment that attracts only the most elite drinkers.

Well, old Stephen was suffering from the Monday blues last week and decided he needed to get out of the office before he went postal.

After a quick drive, he arrived at Hooter's, which has only one beer on tap and serves All-U-Can-Eat wings (after 4 p.m.) on Mondays for 10 bucks.

The restaurant is strategically located across the street from Yacht Haven Grande, where all the big cruise ships dock for the day. For some odd reason, however, the restaurant never seems crowded ... even on Wing Night.

I've walked in there once or twice with my girlfriend (for protection) and aside from the boisterous "WELCOME TO HOOTER'S!" cheer you get from the bored waitresses, all you hear during the meal is crickets in the distance.

Now on this somber Monday, Stephen walked in, gave a quick glimpse at the talent and plopped his butt on a bar stool near the corner of a somewhat empty bar. The plan was to drink Miller Lite draft and eat hot wings until his head cleared. Or until he felt like going back to work. Whichever happened first.

To his surprise, the bartender was actually good looking. Check that, she was a blond bombshell and Stephen couldn't help but stare (he showed me pictures of her on his iPhone). In recent years, that was quite a rarity at Hooter's so he felt the day was about to turn.

After three beers and three plates of 3-Mile Island wings, the bar became steady as other locals jumped on the Wing Night special. The last horn blew from the last cruise boat so the rest of the island could take a collective sigh of relief.

Before Stephen knew it, he was yucking it up with the other bar folks. The same bar folks that said hello or nodded to every single server before sitting down. Like they owned the joint. The worst part, the bombshell said hello to each of them, too.

The dreaded regulars ... at a Hooter's?

Stephen started to sweat. What had he become, he asked himself. Did he want to be like the rest of the people around him? The type of person that would go to a Hooter's in the middle of a Monday afternoon for flat beer, over-rated wings and girls in orange short shorts flirting with patrons?

Stephen immediately stopped talking to the other schmucks, quickly paid his bill and burst out the door toward his car. The mundane Monday had turned into a nightmare.

The only thing he could think of now was to get back to work and pretend like his Hooter's trip never happened. He smoked a cigarette before he entered the office to disguise the booze on his breath and sat patiently at his desk. Was the mission worth it? Did he accomplish what he set out to do?

Then he got a text message. It was from me.

"Hey bud, let's do wing night at Hooter's tonight. Don't be a bastard. Meet me there at 7 p.m."

He texted back: "OK. Sounds good. I haven't been there in a while."