THE BARTENDER KNOWS #17
SOMETIMES THERE’S A BAR.
Sometimes there’s a bar.
Sometimes there’s a bar that’s just right. Sometimes there’s a bar where the liquor costs what it actually costs. Sometimes there’s a bar that openly allows drug deals. Sometimes there’s a bar that caters to mild prostitution. And yes, it’s a bar in Manhattan. And no, I’m not going to tell you where it is. Somethings are better just left unsaid.
But for the sake of this column, let’s discuss it. Black painted, lacquered walls. Check. Dodgy bathrooms. Check. Mildly angry bartender. Check.
(SIDE NOTE: When I say mildly angry, I mean like ready to be pissed off. I saw a dude walk into this bar, calmly ask to “start with an ice water”, and the bartender person said: “Get the fuck out of here.” Yeah. Like right off the bat. I looked at the bartender.
“Are you serious?” He gave me a look like he was about to tell me to kick rocks.
“What? Who comes into a bar looking for water? Go next door. Get a fucking water bottle. It’s a dollar, asshole.” Yeah, that happened.
I told him: “Shit, I thought I was a real asshole bartender. I think you take the cake.” He gave me a stern one and two, and then said, not joking: “What? You need a job or something?” I halfway considered it.)
I looked down the bar. The patrons were all drinking heavily. Oh, did I mention it was ten in the morning on a Tuesday? Yes, like I said, sometimes there’s a bar. Sometimes it’s only in New York City (and New Orleans, much love).
So the party was going. 80’s dance music blared through the jukebox speakers. One of the prostitutes (sorry, customers) approached me. She was funny. She saddled up right next to me. I bought her a drink. Now, I’m not the “paying cash for flesh” kind of guy, but it is always nice to hang out with working girls — oldest profession, and all of that. It’s just nice to have them around. I told her I’ve never had a one night stand in my life. She paused, spreading her silk stocking legs and said: “You sure about that?”
“Yep.”
“That’s pretty boring.”
“I agree.”
Moments later, the now fully angry bartender kicked another person out.
“What did she do?” I asked.
He shook his head, grimaced and muttered: “Fucking hookers. Just take it outside, for Christ Sake. I don’t care what they do around back. Regular people have to piss, you know? Anyways. You want another drink?”
I sat there. “Yeah.”
“All right.”
That’s when it clicked. This bar was awesome. But then it got weirder (is that possible?). It is. Groups of strangely dressed people arrived. A pool game in the back of the bar practically erupted into a fight. Tension swelled. After all, it was 11AM by now.
The bartender returned: “So — what? You from New York?”
“Um, no. I’m from the smallest town in the smallest state.”
“Sounds like a personal problem.”
“No, not really. But I have been in New York City for awhile.”
“Oh yeah?” he asked, still not quite believing me. Doubt was a factor in any angry bartender serving drunks at 10:30 in the morning. I understood this and took no offense.
“Oh, hell yeah,” I said. “New York made a man out of me,” I said, downing my Vodka straight.
“Really? What the fuck does that even mean?”
Now, our angry bartender here didn’t mean to sound so crass. He actually had a lovely point. What have I learned in New York City after all these years? It’s been 17 years by now. I had better have learned something.
Which begs the question: so Bartender Knows, what have you learned here in NYC?
Well…first things first.
- DON’T BULLSHIT ANYBODY.
Now, I don’t mean don’t bullshit with New Yorkers. You just can’t be full of shit around Real New Yorkers. We can spot that smell a mile away. You can be a three-headed monster from Planet Mars, but if you pay your rent on time and don’t lie to anybody, you too can get by in this crazy city. Don’t lie. Don’t front. Be yourself, no matter how ugly you are. We like ugly. Are you ugly? Well…tell me all about it. Tell me you’re ugly.
There’s also an unsaid rule that’s best defined as: “Fuck around and find out.” This is very true. You never know who people really are in New York City. If they look homeless, they just might be a millionaire. If they’re wearing a three piece suit, he’s either a cop or a fake (or both). You never know who you are talking to at any given time. You don’t know who’s on their last leg and is about to commit a felony. You don’t know whose wife just left him that morning. You don’t know if that weird lady didn’t take her pills that day and is going to push you in front of a subway car. Be cool, or be gone. Wise words for everybody.
2. DON’T STAND TOO CLOSE TO ANYBODY.
We fear closeness here in NYC. I mean, ask most folks, they have no problem having sex with you (who ever you are). But closeness…eh, not really. There’s just something about the rat race that refuses to have a partner that doesn’t run as fast as you do. I should have known my marriage was doomed. Every time we’d walk the subways together, I noticed she took her time going up the stairs. I mean like, annoyingly so. One simple step at a time. Me, I hit those subways steps like they’re my enemy, taking two, three at a time. This isn’t a place of leisure. This is the New York City Public Subway System. Get in and get out. So yes, if you are going to be with someone, make sure they are moving as fast as you and in the same direction — because there are way too many paths to go and it’s easy to lose each other in the crowds.
Also, just don’t stand too CLOSE to me or anyone else. It’s creepy. Tourists from Germany do this all the time. If someone stands that close, it generally means you are about to get robbed (or they are German tourists. Seriously though, can we talk about this? What is with these Germans? I’ve been to Berlin. It’s a pretty orderly town. So what’s with this lack of personal space with these people? Who ever can answer this question, I will buy them a round of drinks).
So yeah, don’t get close to anybody. And if you do, make sure they are running along in your general direction. And make sure they wear deodorant (yeah, I’m talking to you, Annoying German Tourist!).
3. YOU GOT TO HANDLE THE SWINGS.
Things change here pretty fast. Like in a day sort of fast. Remember how they used to say a “New York Minute”? These are facts. I’ve lost a job, got broken up with, found myself on an afternoon bender, and somehow got hired by eleven o’clock that night. I’ve lost my apartment, freaked out, swore I’ll leave NYC forever, and ended up sleeping with one of the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen that evening. The swings are CRAZY. You can wake up suicidal and find out a check you’ve been waiting for got cashed early. You can walk from one of the greatest museums in the world (MoMa, of course) and three city avenues away stumble past a rub and tug parlor and share a joint with a homeless man. You can accidentally walk down the wrong block, dodge a potential robbery, and see Bradley Cooper walking out of a black sedan with a hot model moments later.
What kind of food do you want? We literally have every country represented (ok, maybe not North Korean food). What would you like to do tonight? Apart from roller coasters (wait, is Luna Park in Coney Island open during the Winter?) and gun ranges (hold up, there’s that rifle and gun range off West 20th street), you can do anything that’s humanly possible if you have the money and the gumption. Anything can happen. And yes, that’s sort of frightening. It’s also exhilirating.
But the swings can break people. The swings can push you to start taking mood stabilizers. The swings can drive you to murder. The swings can make you fall in love in one night.
The swings can also get you into a bar at 10AM, sitting alone while the prostitutes and the drug dealers mumble away in the quiet light of morning.
Sometimes there’s a bar.
Sometimes there’s a bar.
