A Night Out Some Time Ago

It was one of those nights. I’d been there before. Find a parking space. Load up. Load down. Enter the darkness. Darkness.

Bass amp in hand, a muffled greeting is exchanged. “Listeners”.

The doorman — hungover, stoned, or both — dutifully marks the page.

30 minutes to stage time. No one here except the bartender, who is my best friend at the moment.

“Any drink deals for the band?”

Nope. Not a surprise, anyway.

We rock. We play for friends and family. One of each camp shows up tonight. As expected, not one, but two more do show up. After we are done.

I thank my bandmates for agreeing to haul my ark of a bass amp back to the rehearsal space after the set. And thank the fact that I have a reason to be out tonight. Time to hit the bar with the two stragglers.

Pints. Strong. Hoppy. Tasty. Anxiety dissipates. Not that I haven’t grown accustomed to playing in front of nobody. The frontman sweats. I make silly faces as I thump on the bass. I look out at a point floating in the air over the barren bar-room floor. It’s good.

But that was then. This is now.

My Russian friend texts. The usual inquiry: “Have you played yet?”

“Yes. Come to the bar.”

“On my way.”

Vadim appears with a mutual friend. The friend is dressed in a pinstripe suit. Shiny tie. Russian. They’re like that. He probably drove. Russians don’t take subways. He looks like a gangster. But he wouldn’t hurt a fly. I find it amusing, and make a few Sopranos comments.

Greetings are exchanged briskly. “Let’s take a walk. I have great stuff.”

Leaving friends in the bar, we walk. The gangster is the only one who wonders if Bowery, filled with traffic and pedestrians, is a proper place to pass a spliff around. “Dude, this is NYC.” We say. Easy enough. We’re not carrying bags.

I normally don’t smoke, but I’ve been convinced that this is “good shit.” “Good” means I’m not a paranoid mess and unable, after the beers I’ve already had, to follow through from thought formation to voiced statement without a snafu along the way.

We go back in. Yes. This is good. I feel…toasty. Electric. I know it because another friend texts that he is on his way and I swear two hours pass before he arrives. It’s been 10 minutes.

Evan appears haggard. Wide-eyed. He’d recently quit his job and took a job with “some guys” who were “building apps.” We found it amusing, this operation he described, but what the hell, right? He was selling his soul at an ad agency before, so why not see what it’s all about?

“How’s the job?”

“I have yet to be paid…”

Gangsters are on my brain. My brain…it’s like a cow…ambling around directionless, chewing cud. Looking up every so often to foolishly moo. Then back to chewing.

“You work for gangsters.” I suggest. I must say this 10 more times. The same moo. The rest of the conversation floats above me.

“This is good stuff,” I say.

Vadim, away from his wife in LA, takes aim at anything with tits. He’s wearing his track suit and his Russian hat. It’s not a “Russian” hat. It’s just what a New York Russian would wear. I guess it’s a Kangol. I really don’t know. Track suits…pinstriped suits…hip-hop hats. It all goes over very well in Brighton Beach.

He’s left. He’s right. The women look interested. But the exchanges don’t last long.

“Yo — are you good in a fight? We may need you. Vadim is hitting on someone’s wife. And he’s here,” says the wise guy in a suit.

Fights! Fun. I like fights. It means something happened. Emotions flare. Humanity bared. But I wasn’t going to fight for that. Well, maybe. Another drink first. Line ’em up.

I really had to piss at that point. I made my way down. Walk to the back. Line up at the urinal. Unzip your pants. Piss. Zip up. Wash hands. Out the door.

Back at the bar, I feel wet. Good god, my pants are soaked! I mean…soaked. I must have jumped into a lake. My jeans are sopping wet. Paranoia sinks in. What happened down there? Did I…forget to unzip? What the fuck? It’s cold, though. Cold and wet.

“I’m all wet.”

Evan feels my jeans then pulls away.

“Ha! You’ve pissed yourself!”

No. That’s simply not true. What the fuck?

“One more!” Vadim pokes me, clearly unaware of my plight. Sure. You’re buying.

Can’t stop thinking about the cold. The wet. I’m not staggering drunk. I’m a bit high. It makes no sense. Did I stand in front of a urinal and piss in my pants? Was it the sink? Was it a faulty blast from the faucet? What happened at the sink? I don’t remember that part.

I’m now disturbed. I gulp down another pint, hoping to somehow numb the watery discomfort in my lower half. Vadim is at it again with another hapless passerby. My gangster references are boring the fuck out of me, and certainly everyone else. My fucking legs are soaked. I have no idea what time it is.

Time to go.