Archive for the 'Bar Stories' Category

28
Nov
11

tweedle-dee, tweedle-douche

By Eric Leave a Comment
Categories: Bar Stories, Life the Universe and Everything, Music, Nostalgia and Strangers Observed
Tags: , ,

It has been a long day. I need a little sit-down where everybody knows your name. Funny enough, I know none of the names of the half-dozen or so fellas scattered around the bar, and I suspect none of them knows mine. So I figure I’ll make it a quick one and head home.

I’m sitting there with a lager, and a guy down the bar gets into an impassioned discussion with his companion about ’90s music. It’s ’90s music, I think. Why bother?

His friend pushes out from the bar to throw some money in the jukebox.

He calls out to the bartender to get his attention. “Hey, Vince. I have two problems,” he says, loud enough for everyone to hear. “We need a couple more drinks. And … all I have are large bills.”

He ceremoniously hands over a 50, slowly. I can see Grant’s stern, almost reproachful, gaze from six seats away. I think he must want me to see it.

Oh, Jesus, I think. What a problem. Oh, you poor thing and your burdensome cash flow. Please, honey. A 50 is not so huge.

Continue reading ‘tweedle-dee, tweedle-douche’

17
Jun
11

Two cheeseburgers to go

By Eric 4 Comments
Categories: Bar Stories, Gay, Me and Philadelphia

“I don’t care if you’re taken or not, because you probably are, but I’m going to ask you a question anyway.”

She said it without punctuation, and it came at me by surprise, the sort of introduction that makes you assume you’re not going to want to answer the question.

I was sipping a beer, waiting for a couple of cheeseburgers to bring home for me and my husband. She was the person nearest to me at the bar, two stools away, and was also waiting for her brunch. My order was to go. She had silverware.

She looked about 50 — maybe late 40s. It was hard to tell. She had brown hair that looked natural enough to me. The skin around her eyes was mostly unwrinkled. She was small, not unattractive, but not fit. She wore glasses and had a little nose that turned up at the end. Mousy, I would call her. Librarian-esque. IT, maybe. She wore minimal make-up; just some eyeliner, some powder. Just a neighborhood gal out for brunch on a Sunday by herself.

I didn’t want to talk to her, but my need to not be rude trumped my need to be left alone. “Uh, sure …” I said. Continue reading ‘Two cheeseburgers to go’

17
May
11

Can’t Win for Losing

By Eric Leave a Comment
Categories: Bar Stories, Friends, Fun, Me, New York and Sports

Some people are naturally competitive about everything they do. I am not.

That’s not to say I want to lose, or that I don’t like to be my best. I get jealous when someone is good at something I want to be good at. I want to be a success, and I want people to think I’m successful, but my goal is merely to be accomplished. I don’t necessarily want to be better than anyone. I just want to be as good as they are.

I don’t need to win. Sometimes I don’t even like to win, because I feel bad that someone else had to lose. I just want to be evenly matched. And then if I should happen to win, its not my fault that someone else lost. It’s just down to a good hand. Luck. Fate.

And I don’t like to celebrate and carry on. I don’t like to stand under a spotlight as draw attention to myself as “the winner.” I definitely don’t like to put it in anyone’s face.

But then sometimes, when I drink a lot, I behave much differently.

Continue reading ‘Can’t Win for Losing’

28
Jun
10

Foxy Boxx Really Rocks

By Eric Leave a Comment
Categories: Bar Stories, Celebrity, Gay, My Favorite Things, New York and People We Like
Tags: ,

Pandora Boxx, Miss May

Pandora Boxx, Miss May

It’s always May in my house, because my RuPaul’s Drag Race wall calendar is forever turned to Pandora Boxx‘s page. She is my drag obsession. I might even have a crush on her.

A recent visit to Chicago last month coincided with an appearance by La Boxx at a local gay bar. The night of the performance, my husband and I were sitting around with some friends, contemplating going out. I looked at the clock. 9 p.m. I looked at my husband. I looked at my friends. I looked at the six packs and the chilled bottle of white wine waiting for us. I heard the gentle hum of the air conditioner. And I decided: I am too tired to deal with a dance bar full of screaming gay boys, flashing lights, and ka-thunk ka-thunk ka-thunk — even to see my favorite fake lady. Heaven forgive me, but I am staying in tonight.

Sometimes getting old is no bloody fun.

I never felt good about the decision, and since then I’ve been looking for a chance to make up for it. It came last week. Pandora Boxx was in New York for a Gay Pride kick-off party at the Gramercy Theater, and I was able to get on the VIP list because my company had something to do with the event. This was it. I was going to meet the Pandora Boxx! Get a picture with her! Shake her hand and tell her I love her and that she was robbed on season 2 of RuPaul’s Drag Race — robbed, I tell you!
Continue reading ‘Foxy Boxx Really Rocks’

05
May
09

Going for a Song

By Eric Leave a Comment
Categories: Bar Stories and Other People's Stories
Tags:

A bartender the other day was telling someone a few stools down from me about a regular he served the night before. He was some corporate lawyer drunk who the bartender theorized had a need to subdue his conscience with booze.

“It doesn’t work, but he has fun trying,” he said. And they all laughed.

“You can tell when he’s wasted because he reads the closed captioning.” He gestured toward the TVs stationed behind the bar. “He sings it. He sings the closed captioning.”

I looked up at the television sets. Words scrolled, line by line, disappearing up into a netherworld of text. It just keeps coming and coming, with spelling errors, with missing words, missing phrases. Sometimes it’s just gibberish for a few seconds until something, a computer or a human, catches up.

“He always said the closed captioning looked like Morrissey lyrics,” continued the bartender.

Well, I’m not sure if this says more about the lawyer or about Morrissey.

29
Apr
08

Without the Brown Bag

By Eric Leave a Comment
Categories: Bar Stories and The People in Your Neighborhood
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As often as I am at my local bar, which is, shall we say, not infrequently, he must be there even more often. I see him whenever I am there.

He’s one of those old timers. Been going there forever. I imagine he’s seen the place change owners over the years. And he rocks that same barstool day by day and year by year. He owns that stool. Should he leave it for a minute to take a leak and come back to find it occupied, he spares no one’s feelings to get it back, and he’ll hover and wait patiently, though almost indignantly, until he is reinstalled to his rightful place.

The bartenders indulge him. I don’t know what his limit is. And I can’t say what condition he arrives in, but by the time I get there, he is sitting propped up on a stool at the bar. Usually he’s sleeping, despite the loud Latin music. Or he seems to be sleeping, his head cocked to the side and chin thrust downward onto his chest. In front of him is a bundle of newspaper, a glass of red wine, and a glass mug of something resembling water. Someone once told me it was something stronger.

I never see him sipping the wine, but it goes by and by. He gets refills a couple of times a night, speaking only to the bartender.

He was thin as a younger man but is now filling out in his middle age, with short neat hair and round glasses. I once imagined he was an accountant or a lawyer. But his voice, deep and gruff like a truck driver’s, doesn’t seem to match his frame. Someone once told me he’s a doorman in one of the more posh buildings nearby, but the only uniform I’ve seen him wear is an oversize gray sweatshirt and some baggy khaki pants.

He is harmless and inert. He inhabits his own world, and he occupies it grandly, passing an entire night without interacting with a soul, but he is as undeniable a presence as the pool table. He is a complete stranger, but as familiar as the cashier at the grocery store.

And for all his apparent alcoholism, who among us is better than he is? Our only advantage is that we are more animated, and we’re not there alone. But how often have I see that cash register inexplicably flash “Good Morning, Good Morning, Good Morning…” over and over and over, ad infinitum? How many times have I seen that single LED clock above the door click over past 3 a.m.? How often have I sat at that bar and not said a word?

So we don’t judge him, because it’s too much like looking at ourselves. Why do you think there are so many mirrors in a bar? We just leave him be. Who knows the circumstance and the moment of weakness that could deliver any one of us to where he is now. I don’t know his name. And I feel no need to sentimentally “give” him one. We just wonder out loud about him like we’re observing a passive zoo animal or objectively analyzing a piece of art. I don’t think he hears us.

09
Mar
07

Guess You Had to Be There

By Eric Leave a Comment
Categories: Bar Stories, New York and Other People's Stories
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One of my favorite drunk friend stories — with some compensation for the bits I don’t quite perfectly remember:

So, she’s new in her grad school program. One Saturday night, she’s out to see a band play at some bar with some fellow students and some guys she met in the process of buying the tickets on craigslist. They’re having a great time, getting wasted, letting off steam, getting better acquainted. After the show they decide to continue drinking elsewhere. One of them knows a great place. They all pile into a cab and go.

She gets out of the cab after paying the driver and runs up to the sidewalk to rejoin her friends. But suddenly it seems they don’t know where they’re going. She gets kind of annoyed.

“Hey, guys, where are we going? What’s going on?”

OK, fine, they say. So they turn to enter a bar, and she follows them in. Moments later, they’ve all got beers, and she’s laughing and having a great time, and everyone seems to be getting along. A few of the guys are sort of standoffish, but hey, no big deal, right? she thinks. She’s mostly talking to one guy in particular, anyway, who turns to her at one point and says, “Hey, I gotta ask you one thing: Who the hell are you?”

“What do you mean?” she says.

“I mean, who are you?” he says. “What’s your name? Who are you?”

She holds her beer a little tighter and looks at him hard, a little offended. “What do you mean, ‘Who am I?’ We’ve been hanging out all night. We went to that show. We had a great time. We caught a cab. And then we came here,” she says.

“Uh … no,” he says. “We” — he gestures slowly to himself and his friends — “didn’t go to any show. You got out of a cab and just sort of followed us in here. And here you are. We have no idea who you are.”

She looks at each of them in turn, and it slowly dawns on her that she doesn’t know the other guys. Wait a minute. She doesn’t know this guy either. She looks around the bar. Where are the guys she came in with? She thinks back to the cab. They were right there? Where did they go?

The next day her friends would tell her that after they got out of the cab, she simply disappeared. They went one way and she must have gone the other. They assumed she went home. Instead, she had joined up with a group of complete strangers, followed them into a bar and started buying rounds with them.

All these guys know is that some strange girl just walks up to them out of the blue acting like she knows them. “Hey, guys! Let’s go!” It’s fine. She’s funny and cute. Each one thinks that one of the others must know her … until they all realize that none of them actually does.

“Uhh…,” she says.

The guy’s three friends are so disgusted with the whole thing that they just throw their hands up and walk away.

“Oh my god,” he says. “That’s so crazy. You have to let me buy you a drink.”

She sits with him a little while longer, but she’s feeling a little sick to her stomach. But they were right there!. She puts down her beer.

“Um, I think I’d better go.”

02
Dec
06

Hi, my name is Chip, and I’ll be on your shoulder this evening.

By Eric Leave a Comment
Categories: Bar Stories, Dumb, Gay, New York and People We Don't Like
Tags: ,

Last night at the bar, a friend and I were distracted by a beautiful man taking off his shirt. He was standing with his back against the bar, facing us. A small cadre of piranhas had gathered around him. The guy who had asked him to disrobe — let’s call him Chip — draped the shirt briefly and inexplicably across my friend’s shoulder. Pleased to be included in the proceedings, we continued watching. How could we not?

Seconds later, the heavenly creature was persuaded to drop his pants to his ankles. We all cooed in approval. He was hairless, except for a trail of fuzz that ran south from his tight navel and dashed seductively under the waistband of his powder-blue briefs. Chip then grabbed the waistband and unceremoniously yanked the shorts down hard.

The guy put on a good show of being embarrassed and tugged them half-heartedly back up his thighs, but Chip was pretty insistent about leaving him exposed.

My friend and I looked at each other. “That’s not something you see every day at this bar,” I said, loud enough for everyone around me to hear. Like the red-blooded American homosexual males we are, we continued to react loudly and enthusiastically to the gentleman’s sudden and unexpected nudity.

Chip turned half-way to us and said something we couldn’t understand. Something about chocolate.

What?

He repeated himself louder, or said something similar, but it still wasn’t making sense to us. It was something like: “You can stop talking about chocolate now. I know you don’t like the chocolate boys.”

My friend and I were incredulous. Who said anything about chocolate? Was he talking about black boys?

Whatever it was, Chip continued laying into us. It seemed that he was accusing us of being racist. Chip is African American. But we had said nothing about him. We had said nothing to him. We weren’t even looking at him. We were too distracted — and rightfully so — by the gloriously indecent exposure before us.

“Dude,” my friend said, “We don’t even know what you’re talking about.”

“We’re not talking about you, if that’s what you think,” I added. “We were talking about the naked guy.”

Chip was clearly agitated, and he continued his tirade. The more he said, the more worked up he got. There was something menacing and cold in his voice. It was all so sad and stupid. A moment that was so frivolous and harmless and fun had been sucked dry in just a few seconds by this guy, and all because of assumptions he was making about us. Who’s the racist here?

I wanted to try to figure out what he thought he’d heard us say so we could defuse the situation and move away without any trouble. I imagined we might laugh uneasily at the silly misunderstanding — uh heh heh heh… — and assume stations at opposite ends of the bar without any fuss. And I might have tried to play the peasemaker if he hadn’t then turned to my friend directly and said, “And by the way, I’m better-looking then you are, too.”

My friend sort of recoiled, wide-eyed and incredulous. It was making less and less sense. Chip then let loose on several aspects of my friend’s appearance. Chip evidently did not approve of certain things. What the hell was going on? He was fighting back with personal insults when we never even attacked him (or addressed him, for that matter) in the first place?

“Whoa… wait a minute. Where did that come from?” I asked. “What are you talking about?”

“Hey, fuck you!” my friend shouted back.

At this point, I grabbed my friend’s bag and pushed it into his hand. “This is crazy. Let’s just go,” I said, not wanting to see who might get hurt if the situation escalated (it was less likely to be my friend).

Neither of us knew what Chip had heard or what he was going on about. “Bravo,” I said to him. “Have a lovely night.”

“Yeah, you too,” he said coldly.

“You bet,” I said. “Of course.”

I tugged at my friend and we headed toward the door. “Yeah, fuck you, you little asshole,” he yelled to Chip.

And when I got outside, I realized that I was in such a hurry to get away from the danger that I had forgotten to say good-byr to any of the peopel we were with. A complete stranger’s idiocy had just completely scared me out onto the sidewalk.

10
Feb
06

Sometimes You Just Find Yourself Backstage with a Stripper

By Eric Leave a Comment
Categories: Bar Stories, Gay and New York
Tags:

Against my better judgment, late last night on my way home from the bar, we stopped in at our local. So close to the E train; who can resist? It was the typical “just one drink” scenario. But the hot bartender convinced me to get a second one. “But a stripper is coming out soon,” he said.

Ah, yes. They always do strippers on Thursday nights at this place. I might as well check it out, eh?

The barman was mixing extra strong. He poured the vodka for about 10 minutes and then splashed some cranberry on top and poured on more vodka. If I’d been near an open flame, it would have exploded. Then he gave us tequila shots out of nowhere. It’s nice to know the bartenders, because they let us kiss them on the cheeks, and they’re generous with us, and sometimes we can convince them to take their shirts off, but needing to wake early to work the next day, it was not a good night to receive this brand of generosity.

Having just finished lip synching a South American torch song, a drag queen was talking to the audience rapidly and breathlessly in Spanish. I comprehended nothing until I caught the word “stripper.” She wound up and pitched his name … “Willy.”

Willy emerged from behind a velvety red curtain and unceremoniously climbed on top of a box that was standing where the pool table usually is. He wasn’t much of a dancer, but he sure was extraordinary to look at. Typically overmuscled for my taste, but a fine example of male perfection and perfect for mindless entertainment.

They never go all nude here, which is fine. It’s vulgar enough as it is to have a stuffed thong flopping over your head and a stranger’s feet much closer to your drink than you’d prefer as a narcissistic straight man tiptoes by gracelessly in construction boots. The guys usually tease you with a quick tug on their overimagined underwear. Maybe they’ll wag themselves like propellers as they convulse to the Latin dance music. But this guy didn’t need to tease. He didn’t need to strip. It was all visible, because he was wearing knee-length britches (I can’t think of a better word) that were skin tight, but very expandable, red — and made from something that resembled macrame. It was all there, fully inflated, barely held in and pressed against his abdomen by the … well, special trousers.

I just don’t know what to do with a stripper. I like to watch from a distance and not participate. To my way of thinking, they are for viewing. I can gratify their egos just fine without touching them. I don’t touch the artwork at the Met. Plus they’re greasy. No one takes home a stripper, except his girlfriend, who is usually ostentatiously stationed nearby with a couple of gal pals drinking things with paper umbrellas. She glares over her drink. “Just here to keep an eye on that man. He’s mine, bitch,” her narrowed, over-eyeshadowed eyes seem to say.

You can have him, missy.

He was very popular. To each his own, I say, definitely, but the pawing of the spectators makes them seem doubly unsexy in comparison to the thing they’re worshipping. Honestly, don’t the dancers prefer not to be groped? If I happen to find myself too close to one, I know he’ll hover over me, dangling his engorged man-flesh, waiting for a couple bucks and a fleeting brush of fingertips against pubic hair. But I’m embarrassed and annoyed, not turned on.

I had to piss like a racehorse. But to get to the restrooms, I would have to walk past the stripper, into the spotlight, across the “stage” and behind the red curtain. “Just go,” said Jeff. But I couldn’t walk past that.

But I had to. I just kept my eyes forward, swept past the stripper and found a couple of people waiting before me in the cramped “back stage” space. The pool table had been shoved back there. And with three grown men, there was barely enough room to turn around and open the door to the men’s room. Then the show ended, and suddenly the stripper was off the box and on his way toward us to change into something else before his next act.

Sharing the cramped space with us, he bent down to get his clothes from a bag. His macrame knickers were hanging loose, the tender globes of his soft, full butt peeking playfully over the waistband. (Sometimes I love overwriting!) It was like being in a locker room at the gym, but with attractive people.

And then his oiled ass was brushing against me.

“Excuse me,” he said shyly.

“Uh…” I said. “Sure … er, no problem.” My face flushed hot. I briefly considered skipping the bathroom. But soon he was bundled up in a heavy winter coat and a pair of warm-up pants. Apparently, he dresses as quickly as he undresses. He grabbed a pack of smokes from his pocket and hopped out back to light up.

Then someone stepped out of the men’s room, and I ducked in.

27
Dec
05

Metropolitan

By Eric Leave a Comment
Categories: Bar Stories, Gay, People We Like and Sad
Tags: , ,

About a month ago, Jeff and I went to the Metropolitan, in Williamsburg, Brooklyn. Nothing interesting happened. We met a friend from Park Slope there. Had some beers. Went back home. But it was a personal triumph for me and Jeff. An exorcism of sorts. We had been avoiding the place for over a year because of what we remembered about the last time we were there. Last fall, somewhere in the early days of November 2004, we met a friend there who would be found in his apartment a couple of weeks later dead from a heroin overdose.

We called him and persuaded him to meet us at the Metropolitan one night. He just wanted to stay for one drink. He had to get away for a little bit because he was having an argument with his roommate. We persuaded him to stay a little longer. He told about the argument. A plate was thrown and broken. It was something stupid. We told him we wanted him to come over for Thanksgiving, and we made tentative plans. Jeff and I were still new to the city, he having been here five months and I having been here just over one, and we were both hungry for friends. This guy was brand-new to us, but we felt like we were on a path toward something real. He was full of stories and jokes. He was comfortable and familiar after very little time. He had not the easiest life, but he wasn’t full of blame. He was just making do like anyone else. And he seemed so directed and in charge of himself.

The way he told it, he was at a point in his life where he was trying to ease into his 30s and settle himself a bit, to shed some drama and the people who bring trouble down on him. He was no stranger to drugs. He was known at at certain East Village connection points. But but he wasn’t irresponsible. He always took care of himself. And he wasn’t stupid. I remember he made a point of telling us once that he never touched heroin. He’d seen too many horror stories. And we believed him.

Jeff and I hadn’t heard from him since the Metropolitan a couple of weeks later. We knew he’d had some recent trouble with his phone, so we didn’t necessarily expect a call. We just didn’t know how to get a hold of him. So we walked into an East Village bar where we often hung out with him, half expecting to run into him. And we did, in a manner of speaking.

After a few minutes there, I noticed a tall candle burning in a glass enclosure with a note on it. I didn’t pay attention at first. Just some bar room bric-a-brac. But Jeff saw it, too, and we soon realized the note read: “For F____.”

You wonder sometimes when you don’t hear from someone for a while: Man, what if he’s dead. What would I do? How sad and weird! What’s the last thing we did together? When’s the last time we spoke? Wow, just imagine. Heh — I shouldn’t think like that. He’s fine. I should really call him one of these days.

We called the bartender over. Is that the same F____ we think you’re talking about? The bartender lowered his eyes. Yes, it was. And he told us the story: He had been found dead a fews days ago in bed in his apartment. He had been dead three days. It was a heroin overdose. There was a note next to him: “You looked so peaceful sleeping there, I didn’t want to wake you. —Ricky.” No one knows who this guy Ricky was. We think he’s the one who sold it to him. Either it was some bad shit or just a bad decision. Really loved that guy, you know. Everyone knew him. He was a real good guy. The funeral is this weekend in New Jersey. I can get you the information if you want.

Sure, thanks, we said.

We just sat there, silent, sort of stunned. Neither of us could imagine what to say next, except, occasionally, “I just can’t believe it.”

We left the bar without collecting the funeral information. I don’t think either of us wanted to go. He had far closer friends who should be there instead of us. It was a difficult night for us. We went for a good long walk and stayed up late talking about it and getting angry and sad and crying at times. The things you have seem so much more precious when you realize that someone you know has lost them forever. Forever. And what a waste to lose so much — all that goes into 34 years of life — and suddenly, it’s wiped out. Jeff and I had each other, so we held tight and remembered and cried for all of the things that would never be.

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