For this next round of stories, realize that the Big Orange has this special momentum. Yes, by buying a drink, you can become part of this Big Orange living organism; it's this wonderful, writhing mass that can't be halted, a beautiful, beneficial, self-aware cancer – I couldn't wait to be consumed.
The primary staging site was a dimly lit bar called Ding Dong's. This was my third visit, and it was a Monday, although I had thought it was a Tuesday until that morning.
I had made plans based on this wrong-day assumption for seeing a friend's band play in Brooklyn and then catching an early-morning bus to Boston. When I called the Brooklyn friend and realized that it was Monday, I was initially shocked but then overjoyed. None of my plans had been affected, but I had been awarded an extra day in New York by the gods of forgetfulness.
I spent the morning and early afternoon exploring Central Park before my internal alarm clock went off – 5 o'clock, extra day with no responsibilities, time to get shitfaced. I've been good about drinking respectable amounts at respectable hours of the day, but there are some nights where I decide that it's time to drink. This post is about two such back-to-back nights.
First night, Ding Dong's, the bartender there is the same lady who wrote me directions last Friday so that I could find my way to the Brazilian girl (I tend to go to a bar about two hours before a date and grab two drinks; I'm not sure if that's healthy, but it's worked so far for me). I start off with the can and a shot any time special and thank the bartender for her spectacular directions, which I actually only ended up looking at long enough to admire her pretty handwriting.
I tell her the ping-pong-ball-fire-escape story. She says something to the effect of "well, that's New York for ya" and tells me her name is Missy. I wonder if that's her real name or just her bartender alter ego. She works in real estate during the day and tends bar at night. Missy has an athletic body and generous breasts; she has an open, flat, mischievous face that somehow makes me think that she was really into riding horses until late sophomore year of high school. She is constantly moving between the bar and the storage cellar on the sidewalk and asking me to watch the merchandise.
On one return visit, Missy comes back trailing a heavenly scent. I mention it after switching from can-and-shot specials to rum and coke. She starts complaining about how she has smoked herself dry, and a gentleman at the bar, who seems to be a regular, hands her a small baggie. Oh yeah, there are other people at the bar; I suppose that I'm somewhat focused on Missy.
Yes, it isn't just me and a bartender alone in New York City, as my egotistical inattention to setting may lead you to believe. Yes, there are interesting odds and ends scattered about the establishment, especially behind the bar. My three favorite items include a sketch of a big-breasted woman with a marvelous fro on an orange poster covered in signatures, a square enclave in the brick wall with green lighting that probably houses a leprechaun, and a picture of a three-breasted but very muscular and blue alien shouting and wearing a pharaoh’s cap. Do you feel more grounded now, or would you like me to elaborate on the ass crack of the old guy playing pool across the room?
Anyway, about fifteen minutes later, four people, including Missy and myself, are standing in the door of Ding Dong's and smoking a well-rolled joint. Missy goes back to tend bar before the joint is finished. A black kid, probably no older than fifteen, is being escorted by a beefy Hispanic man with a buzz cut. Perhaps the beefy man smells the remnants of the joint (which is now finished, crushed, and rolled into an unremarkable paper ball), or perhaps he just wants an audience. Either way, he sits the boy down on the curb just past us and begins talking.
“Man, oh man. When I found him there were four of five kids beating his ass. I mean hitting him with bikes and shit. I just walked in and broke that shit up,” he says.
His tone is so earnest that I feel like I need to produce a response. “Wow, why were they beating him with bikes?” I say.
“Shit, I don't know. Why were they beating you with bikes, son?” he asks the kid. The kid holds the side of his head and doesn't answer.
“I mean, if he wanted me to kick their asses, then I could do that. Just pay me two thousand dollars and it's settled. I used to be in the Marines. This is nothing,” Beef-Marine states. I can see that he believes himself. I wonder what he does for a living.
The kid is rocking a nice, grey pea coat. I think people call them pea coats. My ex and my Mom bought one for me at some point. I can see how they're fashionable and what not, but an insecure part of me thinks that they're a bit effeminate. Beef-Marine goes into Ding Dong's to use the bathroom, so I start telling the kid about my confusion over pea coats.
“They took my other five hundred dollar jacket,” the kid mutters.
“Whoa, why would they do that? Should we try to get it back?” I ask.
“No, it's OK. I'm not from the same neighborhood. They found out when I came up here to visit a girl,” he says. Beef-Marine returns and promises to escort the kid safely to a subway station. I wander back into the bar and wonder why everyone in New York City has been so nice to me so far, especially after hearing about someone getting beaten with bicycles. Perhaps I just came from the right place. No, it has to be the not wearing a pea coat, my drunken-high mind supplies.
Missy is about to finish her shift. She says that she'll close my tab and let me decide where to go from there. She also buys me another rum and coke. I take that as a sign and ask her where she's going from here. She smiles wanly and says that she's meeting someone – cue in the big Swede, whose name I will never remember for certain.
The big Swede sits next to me, and Missy puts in some good words for me. At first, I believe that the Swede's name is Hankshoo, that uncertain moment between a sneeze and a handkerchief. Han-something is pale, dark-haired and wearing glasses; she also has on some sort of sparkly, black shower cap.
You know how you can hear a word plenty of times, but it doesn't take on that extra dimension until it's staring you in the face? The word in this case was “bitties.” Han____ has a few artsy tattoos, and one that looks like a poke-and-stick on her left breast. I don't pretend not to stare at the last one. I also show her my peacock feather tattoo – I've come to like showing it, having to pull up my shirt and have some stranger stare at my back while I don't have to say a word. Han____ strokes my spine and murmurs something. When I put my shirt back down and turn around our knees are touching. I'm told about an open relationship, and we start kissing. At one point, I think I pull down the front of Han___'s shirt to see the rest of her tattoo. I can't remember what it was of , but I'd like to say that it was a stick figure playing a didgeridoo. We eventually decide to go to a different bar.
“Hey, hey – I'm so sorry, but your name is Hanoo, right?” I ask.
“No” she says. I'm too drunk to decipher her tone.
“OK, please don't tell me. It's one word, two syllables, describes you, I mean is your name.” At this point, I was playing a one-man game of charades. “Got it! It's Han-uhhhh. No, it's Hanlee, Hadley, Hannah, Helen?”
Han____ laughs a little and tells me her name again. I forget her answer and decide to buy us more drinks. I ask her name again before we are through with that round, but I feel bad for asking, so I immediately start guessing before she can speak. I shock myself into silence when one of my guesses comes out as 'Han-Solo.'
When I order the next round of drinks and look up, Han____ is no longer there. I continue drinking. I wake up on the futon in the apartment that I'm staying at.
My former roommate and his current ex-Israeli sniper roommate tell me that I came in talking about this “amazing redhead who had red hair and was amazing.” A bartender had walked me back, even coming up the elevator with me.
I use my online banking history to retrace my steps. There are charges for two bars whose names I don't recognize as well as for a Mexican restaurant. The last charge is for Ding Dong's, so I suppose that I ended up where I started. Also, I can't find my debit card in my wallet.
There is a crucial window of time in between being drunk and hungover. If you are lucky to wake up while that window is still open, then you have two main options that are not necessarily mutually exclusive: 1) Rehydrate 2) Keep drinking. I decide to take the first option and supplement it by taking a long, leisurely jog through Central Park. If you ever find yourself looking through that same window, then try a jog too. I swear that it helps.
Near the end of my jog, I stop off near Ding Dong's – they aren't serving, but their door is open at noon. A guy who looks like the owner is standing behind the bar, puttering around. He listens to my debit card predicament and tries to call the bartender from last night. No answer, and the dozen plus cards that have been left over fail to match mine. I thank him and jog back to the apartment. My former roommate's roommate buzzes me in and has to leave shortly afterward. I slump in sweaty privacy against the futon and write this quick post called “When I Get a Little Scared.” My Pandora radio station starts playing a song half an hour later with that title as part of its lyrics. I decide not to mull over whether or not this is too convenient and give myself over to this alcohol-induced, endorphin-fueled joy.
After showering, I find my debit card deep in one of my pant pockets. Wrapped around it is a receipt from Ding Dong's with the message “sleeping on the bar” in pen. New York City, the people have returned my drunken embrace – it's not a breeding ground for sly opportunists but rather a gathering point for decent, fascinating souls ready to aid you, provided that you can catch their attention.
After the run, the shower, and the rediscovered debit card, it is now Tuesday for real, so it's time to take the subway and meet my friend and his band in Brooklyn. I'll call this friend BLT, since he's pretty much named after a sandwich anyway. I pride myself that I don't get lost on the trains once – sure, I have to ask for directions, but I don't get lost or cut open my hand again. I make it to a Brooklyn station and wait inside, since BLT has informed that he'll be there in about 15 minutes.
A plump, Hispanic woman sits next to me and asks if I know Jesus. She also hands me a pamphlet with a very handsome Jesus on the front. I have nowhere to go, and unless someone seems to be preaching hate, I'll usually take the Elvis line of approach to religion (“I don't want to miss out on heaven due to a technicality”). She is a Jehovah's Witness, says Colin Powell is a Brother, and starts talking to me about the Universe and the brain.
“I love the science – it is beautiful. And the brain can learn so much about the Universe. Do you believe in the angels?” she asks. I think about my otherworldly snipers and their unloaded rifles.
“Yeah, I do, but who knows what form they will take. Think about stars – they could be angels, and when some of them explode, there is the possibility for new life, a sort of sacrifice,” I say. I'm borrowing heavily from "A Wrinkle in Time" for that one. The lady nods and starts flipping through my pamphlet for me. She is about to speak when I notice a familiar pompadour trailing past the station window. “I've got to go, I'll try reading it sometime,” I say – I still haven't.
BLT is stopped at a street intersection looking about. I call his name and we hug. He leads me back a few blocks to where the two other members of his band are waiting with their gear outside a small, black car. I'll say that it was a Toyota Camry, although I'm horrible with car brands. BLT is the drummer. The shortish, fast-talking guy with prematurely baldness but a cool bowler hat is the lead singer and guitarist. The slim, red haired man with the fanned-up hair and neatly trimmed goatee is the bassist.
I help them cart their gear up to BLT's apartment. The floor of the apartment is littered with useful items like dollar bills, partially smoked cigarettes, magazines, books, essays, and possibly musical compositions. My delayed hangover progresses to the weak-in-the-knees point, but luckily, BLT has two big bottles of Stone IPA, one of which is for me. As the band rehearses, I get out my netbook and try to finish an article on water conditioning contractors. What the fuck is a water conditioning contractor? Despite that handicap, I somehow get the article done as the band hits a song with an intimidating bass beat and demonic drumming that blows my mind – I think it's called “delusions of grandeur.” I start hollering and clapping because the band is separated from me by a room – BLT's apartment consists of a kitchen (where I am working), a bedroom (where most of the dollar bills and partial cigarettes can be found), and a backroom (where the band is rocking).
The band comes to the kitchen for a smoke break. I lean out the window to avoid the fumes and inspect the Brooklyn backyards. They look very similar to the Richmond backyards – irregular grass, promising gadgets in disrepair, small gardens – a clothesline would not look out of place and one yard is covered completely by a blue, plastic tarp. Some children somewhere are screaming about something new and exciting.
“Dude, let's got to the roof, grab a few brewskis, and then head to the show.” This is the lead singer referring to his apartment, which apparently has easy roof access.
“No, we'll grab some drinks and check out some girls before the show,” BLT insists.
“We'll find us some filthy pigs!” The red haired bassist joins in. I'm not sure what filthy pigs are, but his enthusiasm makes me laugh.
“I knew you guys before you were big!” I snap a picture of them. The picture has since been accidentally erased, but the gesture still stands. I have also since forgotten the name of the band and the two band members (I'll call the singer/guitarist Mark and the bassist Alex). Regardless, we hopped in the car, with Alex and me in the back balancing two guitar cases across our knees. After we've passed some empty stretches of street with elaborate graffiti and barbed wire fences, Alex points out some women on the street (New York women have had the classiest, beautiful elegance so far), and I come to learn what the term “filthy pigs” means. I know it should be horribly sexist, but there's something oddly admiring, charming, endearing to it. He also talks about “chowing on box”, and it takes me a while to figure that one out.
We arrive at a cash bar with a sizable skater crowd, and yes, they have can-and-shot specials. I buy a round for the band, and we drink, watching the filthy pigs waddle past. The band has to watch their drinking before the show, but I have no such qualms. By the time we make it to the place of their performance, I've become the slightly drunk roadie/groupie/hype-man. The next place is also a cash bar, and yes, they have can-and-shot specials too. I call a number and activate my emergency blue debit card, which will inadvertently save me from following through on a bad decision in New Orleans a month later.
The band crushes their show, and I go wild during “delusions of grandeur,” forgetting to film the song on my camera. More songs, more drinks, more bands, and we go to lead singer Mark's apartment with the easy roof access. BLT has caught up to me in terms of drinking after the set, and we go on the roof. The night is evolving into a series of blurs punctuated by moments of clarity. I don't remember how high the building to which this bannister-less roof belonged was, but I do recall running to its center and doing shoulder rolls – left, right, backwards – and then coming up dizzy with my camera to try capture that moment. The picture is a series of smudged, orange lights, tracers that could've been from anywhere.
BLT and I eventually take the train back to his Brooklyn apartment. I remember somehow getting locked out of his apartment while he passed out and knocking on all his upstairs neighbors' doors before speaking to an incredulous tenant named Guillermo for several minutes. I don't remember stopping at a Taqueria with BLT, but the guacamole smeared on my shirt after I wake up on my air mattress is irrefutable evidence. But the clearest moment of that night occurred right after my third pair of sandals broke.
This third pair of sandals, old leather birkenstocks, was from my Miami friend. The first pair had also belonged to him, but they broke after only ten minutes of walking. I bought my second pair from a dollar store and the right sandal strap pulled out during a night of bar hopping. Someone was nice enough to give me one of their flip-flops, but they came back with the wrong foot. I wore two left-footed sandals, one several sizes too big, before my friend came through with the latest, more durable sandals. To make a pointless story even longer, I had taken to wearing those sandals regularly during my trip due to a sock shortage.
Anyway, the cross strap of one of the sandals snaps off while we're walking to the train. Somehow, I take that as a sign to cross the tracks. The subway is empty except for a woman across the tracks. BLT thinks I'm joking about crossing until I jump down.
BLT: Third rail – watch out for the third rail!
Me: Oh, right the voltage. It's the silvery one, right?
BLT: Yeah I think so – just don't step on any of the rails.
Me: And there's another third rail on the tracks going in the opposite direction. But now it's sort of like a fourth rail or a first rail, depending on where you start.
BLT: You made it!
Me: I didn't think about having to come back
Woman across the tracks: There's a train coming soon. Get off the tracks, you dumb ass.
And that's where I'd like to leave myself in the Big Orange, walking barefoot through rodenticide and skipping over that third rail, incredibly stupid but unconcerned over incoming trains or approaching disasters.
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