For the better part of four years for my friends and I Wednesday has been a bar night. Not a wild, get dressed up, go out late bar night. A blow off steam after work and leave after happy hour night. Occasionally these outings have spilled into Thursday A.M. but generally we'd belly up at 5:30 and be out in time for Lost. Though we've dabbled in other bars our bar of choice has been largely consistent as has our bartender (the wonderful Ms. Heather.) Our times have not always been unpredictable but they have always been fun so when I texted the usual suspects yesterday as afternoon stretched to evening I thought I knew exactly what I was getting into.
Little did I know that I'd be left fighting a hangover for most of Thursday that even an early-morning bacon/egg/cheese croissant couldn't ward off. How did I get from light after-work drinking to trudging through a work day dehydrated, muddled and craving huge bowls of fries covered in cheese and hot sauce? The story isn't funny. It's not strange. It's not surprising. It's probably a little anti-climactic But it says a lot about that bar, this city and the people that choose to populate both.
This is New York. A city whose paths wind and crisscross with myriad others, and a city where a quick drink can quickly turn into a early morning extravaganza. The night started with the usual crowd. Kenny, Ryan and myself on the stools with Heather behind the bar. Beer and whiskey flowed like friendly small talk and soon enough we turned to talk of music, books and the best burrito in Brooklyn. A previous engagement and a call from the wife cleared Kenny and Ryan out early, though I chose to stay on just to finish my dinner. And here the story takes its turn.
At 8pm on a Wednesday this Brooklyn bar is normally not busy and this was a very normal night. As I ate the last morsels of my Mexican delight and sipped the last drops of my whiskey and soda - fully prepared to clear my tab and make my exit - I over hear a conversation to my left. A local helping a tourist - how a tourist traveling alone made it to Bushwick Country Club mystified me - with directions to the Music Hall of Williamsburg for the Public image Limited show. The bit that caught my attention? "Oh, I'm from Cleveland."
A smart man ready to end his night would have left. Being from Cleveland, and finding a fellow Clevelander, I of course had to speak up. An hour and a half and three drinks later and Michelle (I think) the mother from Lakewood was on her way to see John Lydon with instructions to call me if she got lost. Now, I thought to myself, I can close the tab and get home. I still had enough time to get home, pound some water, and get to sleep without ill-effects the next morning.
Cue Heather's iTunes randomly playing Jawbreaker the moment Leah the Jawbreaker fan walks up for another drink. The two commiserated about "Kiss the Bottle" covers and I was given yet another opportunity to shut up and get out of there. Naturally, as Leah walked by I made some quip about Jawbreaker covers never being truly satisfying. She smiled and mentioned I'd probably have more fun out on the back patio rather than drinking by my lonesome at the bar. A nice offer, but it was late and I was at the tail end of several whiskey/sodas two PBR tall boys and two shots of Irish whiskey. Already four hours down, I thought. I should really call it a night.
I gathered my things, put on my jacket, ordered a pint of Gaffel Kolsh and headed to the back.
As I took a seat in the plastic lawnchair next to Leah's she and her two friends were launching into a heated discussion about various aspects of Judaism. Just as I started to think I was in way over my head the conversation changed to who-can-remember and the tail end of the evening was off to the races. We talked about 5-favorite-albums-ever, getting over relationships, the bartenders, and at one point there was an extended discussion about early 90s electronic music. After two more beers (on Leah's command) and a brief stop back inside the bar to listen to 24 Hour Revenge Therapy I doled out my phone number for the second time that night - to a girl that seemed incredibly into some other guy there - and stumbled home.
As I said, anti-climactic. There was no action, no revelation, no great adventure.
But it was a short evening that became a long night because - and this is the closest thing to a motto that I have - you're never alone at a good bar. The bartenders, the regulars and the random passersby are always ready for a drink and a good conversation. And even looking back through a hung-over haze these times spent with strangers are always worth it, even if they never lead to anything else.
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