Saturday, 11/4/06 –
12:05 AM. Randi and I part when we
get back to the downstairs bar, her to do her alleged job and me to get waved
over to the Tesla Table by the Professor.
The Tesla Table
In 1937, Nikolai Tesla asked permission to light the Naughty
Pine as part of his ongoing experimentation with charged particle beam weapons
and what he called the “teleforce.” He was given six booths on the north side
of the bar, and in each one he put a slightly different version of what he
called an “aetheric aero-electric lighting system,” a bulb with an
astrapium-based filament unconnected to any wiring or power source which
nevertheless stayed lit 24 hours a day because it got all its power from the
aether (which, according to modern physics, doesn’t exist). Of those six, two
were stolen by employees of General Electric, which tried (and failed) to find
out how they worked. One was broken by Normal Mailer in a bar fight. One simply
stopped working (no one knows why) on January 7, 1943. And one was
short-circuited when Billie Holiday licked her thumb with her tongue, touched
the bulb, and made a hissing noise. The bulb winked out, never to shine again.
The sole remaining bulb, which has been shining non-stop for almost 70 years,
has become perceptibly brighter since the mid-90’s, which supports a theory
that says the increase in ambient electrical energy since the 1980’s, due to
computers and cellphones, has increased the capacity of the bulb, which is
drawing its power from the available electrical energy in the aether. Which
doesn’t exist. Or does it?
I get a Guinness from John B behind the bar, and sidle into the Tesla Table with Esma and Rob from
the Strip House, and the Professor and a cute blonde with short hair. But not
before I lick my thumb, press it up against the bulb, and make a hissing sound,
which is a ritual among the staff and regulars. I’m sitting next to Esma; as
usual, the scent of whatever shampoo she uses when she washes her hair
permeates the air—it’s lush and flowery and makes me want to lean my head on
her shoulder for the next two hours, if not ask her, “So do you really wash
your hair right after your shift ends, or does it always smell like this?” The Professor points out that he hasn’t seen me in the
upstairs bar for a while; I explain that I’ve been either writing or napping
instead of coming in right after work, “So by the time I get in, I’ve missed
your class,” which gets a nice round of laughter from everyone, including the
blonde. Rob talks about the bands he’s performing with, and how juggling their
schedule plus his work schedule is a complete and total bitch and a half.
In the course of the
next two hours, I have two more stouts. I have taken to throwing down twenties
to everyone no matter what they charge me, and leaving them on the bar. Tonight
is no different. I also buy a round for the table, because my corporate day job
salary has to be good for something. Rob talks about the reaction to Dominic’s
coke-fueled escapades last night.
ROB: Man, was Steve angry. You should
have seen him. Bitching Dom out to everyone. “If he can’t do his books, he
doesn’t deserve to be here.” It’s a wonder
Dominic still has a job.
ME: They won’t fire him. They’ll keep him here until the place goes under.
Because it’s the Titanic now.
I give them a brief
synopsis of Randi’s Titanic Versus Poseidon theory. And then the Professor
talks about how his grandmother was one of the survivors, which is just barely
possible chronologically, and while the blonde looks over at him with adoring
eyes, Rob and Esma and I try to figure out where we’re going to be drinking in
a month. “Reservoir?” “Not unless the clientele changes. They’re all so young
and stupid there.” “The whole city’s turning into young and stupid.” “Yeah, why
is that?” “Because they’re the ones with the money.” “Fuck.” “You said it.” And
that’s the note on which I leave. Where are we going to be drinking in 2007?
And “Not here” isn’t an acceptable answer.
Mene, Mene, Freddie Upharsin
I sleep in, as I usually do on a Saturday, getting up at 8 AM and heading over
to Ozzie’s on 4th Avenue for coffee, a blueberry muffin, and some
writing. I deliberate seeing the Borat movie at 11, but I end up writing till
11:30, at which point I head into town and browse Tower Records at 66th
Street before my lunch date with Evolution Girl. The Music section is still
pretty full, but the DVD’s have been totally denuded of everything except
season sets of Golden Girls. I make a mental note to come in about once a week
and check out the discounts on imports; Tower has the best import section in
the city, and it is the latest in a long line of things I will be missing come
New Year’s.
I walk up to Jackson Hole. Freddie is already there—dressed
in expensive casual, as opposed to my cheap casual—and because of that, I can
tell right off that this is not going to go anywhere. Randoms you meet at bars
are almost never the same when you see them in the sunlight. They’re paler,
quieter, and (yes) duller versions of the people who attracted you with a mixed
drink in front of them. They’re hesitant; they’re not as fluid. They may have
accepted you by bar light, but when they measure you by sunlight standards,
you’re the one who looks smaller than the sum of your parts.
I can tell right from the moment we trade career information
that Freddie has weighed me in the balance of her day-job life and found me
wanting. She works for a law firm; the older guy she was with at the Pine the
other night is her mentor. “There’s nothing transactional in it,” she says of
their relationship. When I tell her I work at Morgan Stanley, her eyes gleam;
when I say that it’s in the Multimedia department, and that I write plays, her
eyes go dull like a pair of old blue marbles, and while she asks me a few
polite questions about my writing, they are all politeness and no interest.
It’s not a bad date—the burgers were great—but I know, when we part with a
mutually-distant air kiss, that we will never see each other again, and neither
one of us will regret it.
Putting the phony in euphony
After going back to Brooklyn, typing up the last couple of
night’s Naughty Pine notes, and eating an early dinner, I head back into the
city for an 8 PM CMJ show at Irving Plaza. Matt Mays and El Torpedo, a Canadian
group on my friend Abe’s record label, are opening the evening. When I get there at 7:40, Abe is there with Nicole and the lovely Lisa, who works at
Sanctuary. Lisa is cute as hell, has a mane of curly brown hair, and a sharp sense of humor. We watch Matt Mays from the front of the stage,
where one of the guards tells me I can’t take flash pictures (sheesh) so I take
a bunch of low light 400 shots, some of which are pretty cool. But not as
cool, if you know what I mean. Bruce the photographer is also there, roaming
the aisle between the audience and the stage. After the show, Lisa mans the
souvenir booth until the bass player can relieve her.
At 10:15 I’m saying goodbye to Lisa outside Irving Plaza. Do
I ask her to come out with a drink with me? No,
because I know there’s nothing there, not even a neurotic attraction that will
go nowhere. At 10:30 I’m upstairs at the Pine. The bar is full, but the far corner is empty, so I stand there for a few
minutes until I can steal a seat from the table full of Hoboken frat boys
behind me. Almost the first words out of Kenny’s mouth when I get there are the
words: “Why don’t you go back to JERSEY?” Kenny is not having a fun time. If
they’re from Jersey, he’s probably been making lemon drop shots and Long Island
iced teas all night.
Kenny tells me I just missed Marita. Evidently she came in
without her bank card, and got incredibly apologetic the way only Maria can get
incredibly apologetic.
MARITA: Oh Kenny I am so sorry. [Ten
seconds later:] Kenny, I am SO sorry about the bank card. [Fifteen seconds
later:] Please don’t hate me about the bank card.
KENNY: Marita: You live a block away.
You’re engaged to one of our managers. You’re good for it, okay?
Kenny then fills me in on the latest news of the proposed
closing party, which is going to be held on Sunday the 26th. Richie
is running it, and rumor has it that it’ll be from 3 to 10 PM, for regulars and
staff. It’ll be a drink the kegs dry party, with food. God alone knows how many
bottles will be left, especially if the place never re-orders anything.
I spend most of the night working on The Play, which
attracts the attention of a young’n named Kacie, who asks to read what I’m
working on so diligently. I show her a page of notes and she adds a comment and
signs it. I tell her if I use her note, I’ll credit her when and if the play
ever gets done. It’s a good note, too—the kind of “keep it honest by
remembering to give the opposing point of view” note that I usually only give
myself during a second or third draft.
I end up downstairs at 1 AM with Esma and Rob again. At the Tesla Table. It’s like we never really went home. Rob mentions how Saturday
night’s vibe has totally changed now that Sarah is manager instead of Richie.
And he’s right—the downstairs bar is a lot less tense. There’s a timeless
quality to the fun—and not just because the massive clock on the east wall broke last week when
somebody tried to change it to Standard Time, and they took it down. There is a
big bare circular patch on the wall about the windows tonight, so now this decades-old reflex I have, of glancing over my shoulder to check the
time, is totally frustrating. It’s an obvious metaphor for the whole closing
thing: for the next three weeks, time has stopped in this bar; and after that,
Time will have stopped the bar itself.
Alcohol:
Guinness (3—11/3 after midnight), Sam Adams Octoberfest (1—Jackson Hole), Heineken (2—Irving Plaza), Guinness (5—11/4)
Copyright
2016 Matthew J Wells
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