Brooklyn Follies (I)

22 February, 2009

Three brandy-new reasons why j’adore living in the best borough:

FRIDAY:

Local bar.  Two girls, new to the neighborhood, were drinking in my area-advice like freshmen worship a senior.  As I receive a good-bye kiss from the bartender, which invokes wonder and amazement from the freshmen girls, I notice a couple that sits down next to us at the bar.  They’re an attractive couple, but hardly noteworthy otherwise, save for the fact that I dug her earrings.

SATURDAY:

It’s Valentine’s Day, and I’m riding my bike down Smith Street, when I notice a girl walking at a brisk, but tired pace.  She catches my eye – I dig her earrings.  That’s it!  She’s the girl from the couple at the bar last night.  She’s frowning, dressed in the same clothes as last night, although perhaps her hair is more disheveled.  There she is – doing the walk of shame down Smith Street.  She carries her shame like an enormous umbrella.  She avoids eye contact with anyone, which is a shame, because I would have profoundly enjoyed waving and smiling “Hello.”  I love Brooklyn.

I arrive at Trader Joe’s at noon on a Saturday.   The store is fully stocked and there is no line.  I love Brooklyn.

THURSDAY:

I’m schmoozing at another bar with a small handful of regulars, including a teamster who actually defines the word “Teamster.”  His longish hair is disheveled, his fingers stubby, you can watch the beers he drinks and drinks work their way directly to his belly, and he bemoans the long hours he works as he excitedely tell you about blowing stuff up on a set for a living.  This night, it’s late, perhaps even he’s had one beer too many.  He starts to nod off at the bar, his head bobbing up and down like a confused pigeon.  The bartender finally wakes him and encourages him to go home.  Instead, the teamster goes outside to smoke – cigarette or joint? – and he returns to the bar a few minutes later to order another drink.  Really?, we all ask, including Nic the bartender, who actually vocalizes these concerns.  Dude, you just fell asleep, here, at the bar.   Teamster apologizes:

Sorry for falling into the arms of Orpheus.

{beat}

Can’t a guy get a second wind?

Later, a girl dances on the bar to the beat of some other drum.

I love Brooklyn.

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