Are we ever really alone?

It’s a sad moment when you find yourself by yourself in a bar. Bars are social outlets with free flowing legal drugs (ok not “free”). They are day-care centers for adults and as such they can be fun incarnate. You want to go to these havens and hang out and drink with friends, co-workers, ex-lovers, ANYBODY… but not alone. If you look closely at these dimly lit establishments, you may spot some sad sack nursing a drink and some wounds by the end of the bar. They look lonely because they are alone. You know nothing about these people, their situation or current condition, but you pity them. They are drinking alone. The final taboo of the drunk.

Well back off. Sometimes options can be limited and I want a beer and a place to clear my head and inviting a friend can disturb the whole situation. I’ll call them and they’ll get there and they’ll look at me and tilt their head and say:

“Hey buddy, you look down. I’m here for you. Wanna talk about it?”

WHAT? No, fuck you! I want to drink! That’s why we’re at a bar. If I wanted to talk I would go to the Upper East Side and see some asshole in a tweed suit with oversized glasses and a grey beard with some sort of parchment on the wall that says “Certified… something or other” and I would lie on his sofa as he picks his teeth and pretends to care about why I feel like my life is going in circles. I would pay him $550 bucks and hour and he would laugh as he remodels his home in Connecticut. Just shut up and drink.

So I bundle up and walk through some impressive snow flurries to the closest bar unaccompanied (burdened) by any other noises besides the ones on the street and in my own head. I want to relax, grab a pint and just think awhile. This bar (it’s really called “Bar”) is perfect for that kind of thing. Poorly lit, soft alt-music without any driving baseline, only a small TV with almost no sound and a great selection of drinks. Perfect place to hide from the world. All this just a hop, skip and a stagger away from my apartment. What more could I ask for?

Tonight I asked for solitude, and I got it. The cold and snow (and the fact that it’s Wednesday) must have driven most of the customers away. The bar was completely empty except for a couple in the corner and the bartender who looks bored out of her mind. I plop myself on a stool at the end of the bar and drop my coat off on the seat next to me. I eye the taps a second and then try to get the attention of the girl resting her head in her hands behind a sack of glasses.

I cock my head and squeeze out an “Ummm… hi?”

That’s all it takes. She lurches up and shuffles her way towards me. She’s cute in a way I can’t really put my finger on. She has her short black hair pulled back with a rubber band and is wearing a very underwhelming ensemble of ripped jeans and a light blue sweater. But she pulls it off in a laid-back hotness that is simply comforting. She definitely isn’t trying to impress anyone. Not that there’s anyone here to impress.

“What can I get ya?” He tone is soft and does little to hide her boredom. She wants to be somewhere else on this freezing cold evening.

“I’ll take a Brooklyn Lager, thanks.”

“Sure” she says. It’s not the “Sure” that makes you feel good about your choice. It’s more of a “Sure, and could you kill yourself you freaking drunk” type of “sure.”

I try not to notice. I give her a five and don’t take the change (4 dollar pints are a steal in New York) and begin to sip… and think.

I don’t remember what I think about. It’s not anything deep or meaningful. It’s just an evening alone with my thoughts and our mutual friend booze. The three of us have a grand ‘ol time depressing each other and if any of us begins to feel empty, I signal the increasingly attractive bartender to fill us up. On my third pint, the couple in the corner throws on their coats and makes their way to the door. A huge rush of frigid night air whooshes its way into the bar as they exit. The wind is so strong it blows a speaker off the shelf, effectively killing the music for the evening.

I didn’t really mind losing the disharmonic tones emanating from the fallen speaker, but the bartender (and now my only company in the place) was less than thrilled.

“Stupid motherfucker!” she screams half at the now exited couple and half at the broken speaker. She hunches over and begins to clean up the mess. She is mumbling soft curses to herself as she tries to put the pieces of the speaker back together. The frame is obviously cracked and wires are protruding out of the back at various angles.

I make my way to the other end of the bar to get a better view of the damage. Upon closer inspection, it appears the speaker is a lost cause, and the bartender may join it. She’s pissed.

“I can’t believe this is fucking happening to me today.” Her anger is palpable as I move closer to her. She looks up at me and stands slowly with the remnants of the speaker still in her hands. She places it on the bar.

“You ok? Need any help?” My offer is mixed with sincerity and pity.

“Help?” She replies, starting to vent. “Yeah I need some help. I need to know why I’m even here. I need help figuring out what the hell went wrong with my life that I’m stuck in some dive bar washing glassing and dealing with fucking drunks.”

“Uhhh…” My fear combined with the fact that I’m pretty sure she was talking about me leaves me a bit tongue tied. She however, continues.

“Did you know I have a law degree? Yeah, Brooklyn Law! I’m almost a freaking lawyer, but I can’t pass the BAR, so I can’t get a real job, so I can’t stop working here! I can’t even begin to pay off my student loans!” Her voice is cracking and tears are welling up in the corners of her eyes. She collapses in an emotional heap at the end of the bar.

I wanted to comfort her, but I never know what to say in these situations. How can you cheer up somebody at a bar besides offering to buy them a drink? I seriously doubt that she needs my offer for any chance at alcohol consumption. So I did what any self respecting (loathing) drinker would do: I sat on the stool at the end of the bar and sipped my pint as she composed herself.

About two minutes of awkward silence (interrupted by sobbing) later and it seems she had gotten out all of the pent up frustration she had been holding on to. She wipes the final tears from her eyes and gives me a half smile.

“I’m Jamie by the way.” She stands as she says it.

“Nice to meet you Jamie.” I try to be as earnest as possible.

“Likewise.” She attempts to smile again. “So, you always drink by yourself?”

“No” I shrug, “Sometimes it just feels like I do.”

...and Party Every Day

I knew my party was just about done when Kyle stumbled out of the room moaning and turning green. Nothing kills a party atmosphere more than a retching sound. It’s an amazing feeling to have a friend in need and have your first thoughts be of death and dismemberment.

“You threw up.” It’s a simple observation as I survey my kitchen.

“Yeah… I got… I’m a little sick, man.”

“Yes, I see. But you threw up… on my dishes.”

“Sorry man. They were in this sink.” Kyle burps “sink” more than he speaks it. The air smells of hot sauce and whiskey. I served neither this evening.

“That would almost be understandable” I am trying to mask rage with bemusement “but what you did… you puked on the clean dishes in the rack.”

“…oh…”

Hosting parties is awful. You may not know it now, but your friends are the rudest, most inconsiderate fucks ever spawned from the festering Love Canel of the anti-Martha Stewart. Oh, and they don’t give a DAMN about any of your belongings. They will gladly break stuff and lie about it. Spill drinks on books and carpets and then hide the damage. If they are enterprising enough, they might even misplace some half eaten food item in the couch cushions. These “friends” will go all out to make your life miserable the next day. I know this because that’s how I act when I go to parties. I guess Kyle was just living up to my expectations.

“Man I feel really bad.” I am not sure if he’s guilty for the mess he is currently making or if he’s ready to puke again. I am standing clear just to make sure.

“Kyle, can I help you to the bathroom? Or at least can you turn your head to the sink? You boot on anything else clean and swear I’ll make you sleep in it.” Even I’m not sure if I’m kidding.

“Dude, you don’t have to be a dick.” He can’t keep his head straight. Kyle bobs back and forth like a leaf stuck in a breeze. “I said I was sorry I busted up your fucking thing here. I know you planned a good time… and I’m, like sorry.”

He’s wrong. I didn’t really plan to have a big get together tonight. Some of these people brought friends of their own… and thus like a sapling growing into a might oak, the party is created. The organic party is almost always better than the planned shindig. Guest lists, invites, shopping and any actually effort really take the flavor out of the drunk gathering. I’ve always had more fun when my jerk friends bring jerk strangers into my home. It creates such an air of unpredictability. Now take this uniquely rowdy crew, add a splash (and several more splashes) of liquor, place in an unclean room and shake vigorously. BAMN instant party.

There may not be any food, planned entertainment, and there may be no real reason other than “Friday,” but it really doesn’t matter in the end. Nothing beats drunken revelry, random hook-ups and even some super awkward moments that make life special.

But it isn’t always sunshine and smiles. After a night of heavy drinking, emotions can run wild and some boundaries that should not be crossed are violated. And sometimes this negative aspect can manifest itself as a moron puking on your fine china.

Kyle is busy examining the drain on the bottom of my kitchen sink when I hear a crash back in the living room. I spin around just in time to see some asshole I’ve never met break through my card table like Chris Farley on a bender. Beer bottles and paper plates go flying in every direction. Some of his dimwitted buddies (and some of my close friends) laugh and clap in approval. I lose my temper.

“That’s it! GET OUT!”

The large gentleman who is currently residing inside my table begins to object, but I leave no room for error.

“Yes you too! Everybody grab your things and go!” I sound like the rudest stewardess ever to de-bark a flying saloon:

“Out! Out! Out! Take your crap… I’ll see some of you later… yes NOW… leave that, it’s mine… take your beer I don’t care… go with haste please… fuck you too… I don’t give a shit if you just got here… party is over people… I don’t even know half of you… keep walking tubs… move move move…. no stragglers… yeah, nice knowing you all… maybe next time I’ll go to your place and break your stuff… adios!”

Kicking the last drunken stranger out of my house with a vindictive boot to the ass puts an exclamation point on a crappy evening. The mess is staggering. I can barely even think about cleaning as drunk and as tired as I am. It can all wait till tomorrow when I’ll need lemon cleanser to help me battle my pending hangover. I’m about to pass out when I hear some stirring from the kitchen and realize I am not yet alone. Kyle never made it out.

I find him curled up under my sink hugging a Drano bottle (don’t worry, it’s sealed) and still leaking vomit out of the corner of his mouth. He fits right in with all the other toxic detritus. I pick up the stained and damp tablecloth off the remains of the table and cover the drunken mess that was once a friend of mine. In a final act of compassion I turn him to his side so he doesn’t choke and die.

My generosity knows no bounds. That’s probably why I throw parties in the first place.