A Late Night Drink In The Big City

A rarity for me is closing a bar at 2 am on a Monday night. It’s just one stiff scotch on the rocks and a Jukebox playing all the right tunes while relating well in conversation with a buddy. The light is low and the crowd thin. The woman working the bar, well into middle age, is friendly, welcoming, and in no rush to close. Low light mixed with Victorian décor appropriate for the somewhat well maintained historical building provides a setting one might find in the imagination of Tom Waits or a Hollywood set designer. At least that’s how it appears after midnight.

There’s a peaceful calm in the late night hours of downtown. The hectic vibe of city traffic, people rushing to beat deadlines, and meter maids just doing their job is nowhere to be found. The games have been played and it makes no difference whether or not the home team won or lost. The air is clear but heavy with humidity. A streetlight reflecting off rapidly passing low clouds with a moon glow background creates a dreamy affect. I feel a nice calm enhanced by the right amount of alcohol. I sense no distraction as time passes in an arrested moment that I’d like to hold onto.

At some point creativity makes an appearance. A witty comment, a funny story, a silly expression, and I’m comedian in the eyes of a friend and a bartender. After a pause, a good idea appears and I nod, commenting to myself, “Yes, that’s what I’ll do!” But really it’s a non committal, “I’ll think about it”. An interesting looking woman bathed in shadowy light gets my attention. I entertain the thought of introducing a hello but I think, “There must be a problem?” What is a woman doing alone in a bar past 1 am by herself on a Monday night”. I avoid making any kind of contact and save myself from certain doom. I mean really, I never go to bars to meet women.

An older elderly sort of lady appears and I receive an introduction. She’s the owner and lives in an apartment above with a garden like balcony that looks like it belongs in the French Quarter of New Orleans. I bid a compliment and she thanks me with a smile.

It really is late. Conversation is tempered with laughs as we talk of triumphs and missed opportunities lost to a rash decision or savvy competitor. Of course the topic of a woman’s mysterious behavior always enters the conversation at some point. A guy just wants to enjoy a drink with friends but when a woman says she’s, “Fine”, you know there’s a problem. Laughs follow and the thought of another drink is struck out by the sound of closing time.

Morning comes too soon for someone who can’t sleep late. I think to myself, “I really ought not stay out to 3 am”. It’s out of character for me. I don’t feel too well but it’s nothing a greasy lunch won’t cure. I think, “Honestly, I don’t need to drink. It’s a waste of time and money.” Oh well, I guess it’s a shame I had a good time.