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This, it turned out,
was one of those time-killing situations that present themselves when
the second of your two-person party is tied up at work or the F train
fails to show its soot covered face. Such opportunities often lead
to late night drunkenness as you stand awkwardly in a space alone,
casting glances every two or three seconds at the door like an expectant
dog (half because you actually expect the person to show and half
to save face and not be the creepy alone-guy at the bar), all the
time with a beer in hand and no table to rest it upon. In this particular
half-terranean (not quite sub) space I stood at what amounted to a
small outcropping equal to the width of the bottom of a pint glass
built around a pillar that I assume propped up the low ceiling. It
provided little cover in the rather large bar, but gave me just enough
to eavesdrop on a group of dorky (yes, dorky) girls sitting at the
bar talking about boys 'n' stuff. They seemed to not notice my skulking
figure, or at least trusted me enough due to my superior fakes of
looking at my watch and then the door and then shaking my head to
know I wasn't there to follow them home and murder them and their
cats. So I downed a couple Guinnesses and listened to them blah blah
and looked around at the virtually empty, but cavernous space and
wondered how life had brought me to this dead end of a bar. I went
to order my third beer and caught the bartender yawning and checking
what was probably a pre-cancerous mole on his left arm. Even he couldn’t
believe fate had dealt him this blow (the job, not the cancer). So
I passed on the brewski and hoofed it over to another bar in the neighborhood
to restore my faith in drinking. [MF]
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