something new

So I've decided to try a new technique with my writing. A little more creative:

He tells me I have pretty eyes, after polishing off beer number ten.
"Anyone ever told you that?" he asks.
"Every once in awhile," I say, when in reality this guy is the third drunk across the bar to pull this line.
It's not that I'm offended. I mean, I get people drunk for a living, so I'm bound to get some people who've had enough liquid courage to think I would actually be interested in them. At least they aren't some drunk asshole trying to start a fight.
Wait, actually a drunk asshole is better. At least I can kick them out without feeling guilty. It's a little harder to turn someone away when all they are trying to do is get some ass.
Back to Mr. Original at the bar. He goes on to tell me about the multiple apartments he owns and how he wants to buy more, but isn't sure if it's the right time.
I really could care less, but since it's been a slow one at the bar I decide to put in my two cents and say, "Give it another six months or so. They're predicting that's when the prices will hit their lowest and everything will go up from there."
"Yeah I'll give it a month and then I'll see," he says, either not listening to my advice or thinking that this girl (me) behind the bar couldn't know more than him about the economy.
He goes on to tell me all about how during the last recession things weren't as bad as they said they were and during this 'downturn' (it's not a recession, or no one wants to admit that it is) the same is true. He doesn't know anyone who's struggling that bad, he tells me.
I think about the millions of homeless all over the country or those who come into the bar looking for something, anything to make some money. But I don't say anything because this guy is rich, white, and talks only about himself. There's no changing a person like that.
So I continue to pretend to listen to what he has to say. He's talking about over 10 people living in some of his apts at once and the gang problems in the areas around his apts and I think I should ask, "You think all these people are fine?", but because I'm too tired to fight I balk.
Maybe he's doing this all on purpose and I'm supposed to call him out. I don't.
"You really do have pretty eyes," he says.
"Thanks," I say, reluctantly. "You want another one?"
"Yeah and the check."
I give him the $65 and he spends his whole last beer complaining about the $6.50 beers.
"I just work here," I say.
He hands his credit card and finishes his beer and offers up something about how he's never coming back here again.
Once again, I could care less.
I go to clean up his mess and pick up his credit card signature, which is just that a signature, no tip.
Great. If pretty eyes can't get you at least a $5 tip, the recession must be real.