Tuesday night - Crowbar / King Corona / Panhandlers - Part 1

Summer didn't pull out all the stops this year. I think it wanted to be more like fall. Everyone is trying on new clothes, new ideas.

Maybe that's why I ended up actually saying "no" to a panhandler.

I was walking out of Crowbar after nursing a liter of beer. Maybe I'd come back, maybe I wouldn't. I turned the corner, to head down to 7th Ave, and immediately assessed the vagrant threat level, which, with three zig-zag amblers, was around yellow or orange. The nearest guy, sidling along with wall on my right side, held up a hand, which I optimistically high-fived. He smiled, murmured an "oh yeah", and kept on his way. Definitely down to yellow.

Out of nowhere, this older guy, dressed entirely in white--white polo, white shorts, white socks, white sneakers--cornered me in front of the hookah lounge, yelled "Hey!" in my face, and kept trying to hand me his VA identification.

"Hey! Hey, man. I'm from Georgia. My name is Dave. I'm from Georgia and this is my veteran's ID. Here! You can check, you can check! I'm totally legit!" He swayed back and forth, like he was drunkenly guarding a basketball player.

Usually, I freeze or fumble with pleasantries until I make up something about not having cash at the moment, which is mostly always true. Instead, I looked him straight in the eyes, put my hand on his chest and said slowly, "Dude, I didn't ask for ID. So, take it easy." I set my sights on the closest street corner and threw a metaphorical fishing hook to the street sign and reeled myself forward, not looking back.

Wow. Who am I? The lack of bullshit was astounding.

***

Crowbar.

I show up early, of course. I'm always too early for any night that has a "doors open at" time, which is to say that I arrive 30 minutes after the doors open. I heard no music. A TV played sports on mute in the corner. Cute, scruffy, infuriatingly young-looking hipsters draped themselves at the bar and the tables closest to it. Everyone knew each other, except for me. I knew no one save the pleasantly guarded and quiet bartender...and I don't even really know him.

People looked over to assess me, which I'm fine with. Those who glanced over for more than a second, their eyes registered "that guy is alone". Alone. Alone, like the table in the corner, from which the hipster kids stole all the chairs to huddle together at theirs, leaving it to stand there naked, bolted to the floor.

I'm okay being out alone, but I felt like telling everyone that I was supposed to meet someone. "Hey guys, I'm just hanging until he gets here, despite knowing that he's not going to show up. Don't worry about me." Too much, you think?

Things can go two ways at a place like Crowbar (or Czar, or the Castle)--you see people you know and have a great time conversing, or you don't and resign yourself to silence or trying to pull off non-creepy people watching (it doesn't exist). Some bars just have a low tolerance for loners, with no-nonsense bartenders, a traditionally anti-social crowd (goth, geek, or the pathologically pretty), or too-cool hipster ethos. Others, like New World or Reservoir, have chatty and/or buzzed bartenders who will tell you their life story and ignore other patrons to listen to yours.

The sad part is when you have to pit music you want to hear against whether or not you want to feel like an outcast.

And then there are those nights you think you're going out with someone and they may or may not cancel.

On faith, I still showed up to Crowbar and ordered my five dollar liter. Yuengling. Not bad at all...but still kind of like rusting tin mixed with cider. The plastic mug, behemoth, sat in front of me as if I had won a contest on a country radio station. It's you and me kid. And that pesky iPhone of yours. Sip me and contemplate your life, or surf the web on that devil screen. Your choice, man.

So, yeah, after noticing how beautiful the moon was, waxing gibbous, and how the breeze played around the hair on my neck, I broke down and read webcomics on the phone with what little battery I had left, waiting for the moment when my metaphorical fishing hook would latch onto my bed.