The sun was low in the sky. The early evening sunset lit the road ahead for the last few moments of the day. His favorite mug in hand, empty and dangling from his curled right index finger, tapped against his leg with every step of his gait. His house keys in the right front pocket posed a danger to the fragile mug and he struggled to get his left hand into that pocket to retrieve them. Stopping along the roadway, twisting, he finagled the keys out and moved them to his left hand. Instinctively, sensing a shift in balance transferred the mug to his left hand and chipped the brim on his keys. He didn't notice as he was preoccupied with the conversation he didn't have with his parents.
Why? Why didn't you tell them. You idiot? What would they do? Call you a liar? Call the police? The FBI? CIA? What the hell, man. Just go back, tell them. They don't believe you parked a few blocks away because you wanted to get some exercise in after the drive.
Pausing his gait to put his palms on his face and hide in the safety of his hands he noticed the rim of the mug was cracked. Aw man, I love this mug. Frustrated with his lack of action, damage to his favorite mug and still feeling alone, he clenches his fist, takes a breath and wills himself home.
His bedroom is a simple room. Minimally decorated having no artwork on the walls, no trinkets or baubles about. Adorned with piles of dirty clothes filling his hamper and on the floor next to it, as well as tall stacks of folded clothes on his dresser and at the end of his bed that he moves from the bed to the chair and back again every evening before bed and in the morning when he sits to have his coffee and stare out the second floor bedroom watching over the alley behind the eight unit four floor walk-up. The window sill is old and painted shut with a chocolate brown paint no longer in circulation, so the presence of central air in the summer is a relief. The bed is sloppily made with hospital corners permanently fastened at the end of the bed with clips bought at 3:00 AM while watching an infomercial with a particularly charismatic host. A white fitted sheet, a pale blue flat sheet and a gray comforter on top comprise the bedding. Two pillows at the head, one down and fluffy, the other microfiber and filled with a memory foam that is quite firm, with a dip in the center to rest the head.
He can't be bothered to reminisce over broken things as he has enough brokenness in his life to mull over, he places the mug in the wastebasket under the small desk opposite the bed, and he heads over and plops down on the bed. A small puff of particles dances in the displacement of air and can be seen in a trickling of light from the setting sun between the buildings in the expanse of his view. Breathing deeply in and out a tear wells up in his eye.
I had a chance to tell someone. I had a chance to have support. I don't know why I feel like this is so hard. I don't know why I am so scared. I got everything I ever wanted. I can do something nobody else can.
Contemplating his solitude he considers that perhaps he is not alone. Perhaps there is someone else that can do what he does. He pulls out his phone and tapping away at the polished screen searches for hours for any message board, chat room, website or anything that may have an indication of someone reaching out for others like them. Like him. Nothing. Sighing and defeated, he decides he needs out. Out of the house. Out of his town.
He throws on his nicest pair of jeans, puts on a shirt he got for Christmas a few years ago that is a tailor fitted button down that makes his shoulders look broader than they are and makes him feel good about himself. Running his fingers through his dark hair he looks approvingly in the tall black trimmed mirror hanging on the back of his bedroom door. He nimbly slides his belt through the loops and fastens it in a flash. He grabs a pair of shiny black shoes with a leather sole, less comfortable than his sneaker collection, but today he wants to feel pretty. Combing through the mental images of the catalog in his mind of all the places he has seen or been he settles in on Copper and Oak in the Lower East Side of Manhattan. He didn't get much time to research it but remembers it from the day he last visited the Empire State Building and unceremoniously found his way to the pavement out front.
With a quick breath in, he reaches for his jacket. He flips it from right to left and places his right arm through as it is flung. Breathing out he blinks and he is in front of the Empire State Building. The loose left arm of the tan leather jacket with warm inner lining he reserves for long walks on brisk nights smacks a man in the head having a cigarette break.
“What the fuck? Are you kidding me right now?”
Oh man, no, I am so sorry. I wasn't paying attention. Just trying to put my jacket on. My bad. My bad.
“Why the hell were you behind me? Why you so close? Am I going to have to stomp you? On my 15 minute cig break?”
No. Look, I'm sorry.
The smoking man stops his arm halfway to his mouth, looks Diego in the eyes and drops the cigarette on the ground in front of him. With a yelp, Diego turns and flicks his hand through the empty sleeve and takes off at a full sprint down the street.
Letting out a quick exhale through his nostrils, smirking to himself, the man pulls out another cigarette and lights it, never leaving his spot at the outdoor ash tray.
A couple blocks away, Diego looks over his shoulder and sees no pursuer. He slows himself to a trot and stops at an intersection. Unfamiliar with the street signs he pulls out his phone and punches in the name of the bar into his map app and plots a path. Breathing heavily and laughing to himself he pauses to let the rush of endorphins wash over him letting the truth of his safety belie his body's pursuit of preservation that kicked in. After a few moments he heads out on his 16 block walk down 2nd Ave.
Copper and Oak, a spirit bar in the Lower East Side neighborhood of Manhattan boasts a seasonally relevant menu of whiskeys, ryes, tequilas and the like. A beer guy through and through, the thought of upgrading as a human to spirits calls out to a weary Diego fighting feelings of ineptitude, fragility and naivety. Walking passed a single empty patio table and through the doors gives way to tall ceilings packed with shelves and shelves of bottles whose names he's never seen. The dimly lit ambiance showers golden light from behind brown liquid filled bottles bathing the patrons with a warm tone good for intimate chats and late night rendezvous. The pipe ladders that roll along the rails offer a charm for an intimate setting not already lacking any.
Sifting through the small crowd of patrons, he finagles himself a spot at a part of the bar with no seats and only a hands breadth of counter space. He pulls out a crisp twenty dollar bill and a crumpled five. The bartender makes her way, side stepping down the aisle of spirits to Diego.
I know this isn't much, but is it enough for a two finger pour of something that'll warm me and a tip? It's chilly outside and I'm gonna go back out soon, but I have time for a sip or two.
The pale green eyes of the bartender squinted as she tried to place the face of the mildly put together man standing before her. She knew him from somewhere. Her eyes widened immediately with the memories of a crash flooding the forefront of her mind. Residual anger welling up, she fights the outburst, taming it slightly so as to communicate clearly there is still something to be said for his recklessness.
“I know you. You're that idiot that jumped into me the other day.” flicking her hair from her face with a subtle movement of her head, not losing eye contact she continues, “That hurt, so you know.”
Mortified, Diego shrinks into himself, putting his head down, pulls the twenty back and sheepishly says, Oh man, I'm so sorry. Look, keep it. You don't even have to serve me. I'll leave. I didn't mean to knock into you the other day. I swear, I was just being silly and not paying attention and I didn't see you.
Sternly glaring in triumph, she stands up straight, crossing her arms for a moment and then releases the tension, shifting her weight to her heels. “Is that it? A fiver for my troubles and you're off the hook?”
Unprepared for the banter, he stares back, at a loss for words. He pauses for a brief moment and remembers a line his grandfather used to say. Well, either I keep the hook and you lose the line, or you let me off and you can eat someone else. Besides, I'm too pretty to be sushi. He begins to scream internally at the thought of telling this woman to eat him.
With a smirk and a squint, enjoying the reply, she responds, “Watch out boy, I'll chew you up.”
She's a man eater, Diego says in a bit of a sing song.
They lock eyes for an instant and they share an exhale accented with a soft “hmm.”
Blinking through his embarrassment, his cheeks warm with blood and become flush, Harsh, but you might also be right. OK, I will have that drink and please, keep the change. Softly smiling and eager for this to end, he begins looking around feigning a measure of interest in the set up behind the bar and the adornments of the walls.
Climbing the ladder behind her, she grabs a bottle of 10 year Scotch, gives a neat pour in a tall narrow snifter, drops three droplets of water on top and slides it over. “Here. This will warm you up, if you sip it, and it has a lovely finish. It's not the smoothest Scotch that will touch your lips, nor the sweetest, but it's a delicious, malty treat that will do you just right.”
Thanks! Wow, to be honest, I've always been too scared to try any real whiskeys or vodkas other than like well stuff on special at sports bars. I'm excited for this.
“Well, don't shoot it and don't you spill it.”
I swear, I'm not always clumsy, I wont spill it. Here, I'll just stand right here and sip this here.
Satisfied with himself and maintaining his composure, he takes a sip and is instantly flooded with buttery notes and subsequent raisin and almond flavors. His eyes open in excitement and wonder before his face collapses on itself from the strength of the sip. He breaths out heavily, fighting back a cough.
Laughing, “Haha, this really is your first time, isn't it?”
Yeah. Ugh. I was not ready for that. It filled my nostrils and burned my lungs as I breathed in. My mouth is still on fire as my taste buds are I'm sure dancing or jumping around in pain. But, I liked it. Thinking to himself, unwilling to embarrass himself further, “I wonder what the water splashes do.”
Um. At the risk of coming off as an utter child, what do the splashes of water do?
“No, don't be afraid of asking questions. Never be afraid to ask. How else will you learn, how else will you discover things? I've always been told that adding a few droplets of water to whiskey enhances the taste. So I add a few to first timers' pours and ask people that are more confident in their ordering what their preference is.”
Oh, wow, I never would have guessed. I really appreciate you holding my hand through this. It makes it slightly less embarrassing.
At ease, for the first time in days, both palms down on the counter, he leans forward and rests his weight forward and breathing in a pause. Standing up, he pulls his glass into his chest and looks up at the bartender, and smiles a genuine, hearty smile full of gratitude and relief he wasn't crushed for being ignorant.
Seeing his smile brings a smile of her own. Her eyes narrow and the dimple in her left cheek shows. She shifts her weight forward causing strands of hair to fall forward from her ears and cover her face slightly. Pulling them back with both hands, she looks at him, “What's your name?”
Through his smile, trying desperately to hide his excitement, he mutters softly but confidently, Diego, nice to meet you. Extending his hand forward, What's yours?
Without pause, “Penelope. My friends call me Penny. But only my friends, so let's stick with Penelope for now.”
Penelope, what a pleasure to meet you. He takes his last sip, places the glass on the counter, grabs his jacket and reassembles his outfit, continuing, I really like this place. I'll have to come back. New York is so much more fun than I ever thought it would be. Maybe I should stick around next time I come.
Penelope squints her eyes, trying to see through his words. She watches him walk toward the front door. He looks left to right, surveying the area. Averting her eyes, she glances the bar checking to see if anyone needs anything, and shifts her eyes back to the front door. He's gone. She, smiles softly, reminding herself, “Yes, he is cute. No, you don't date patrons. Ever. Yes, you 'met' him first outside of work, but he came in. Nope. I'm proud of you, you beat him down when you saw him. There was also a bit of banter. That can’t be the only reason you’re drawn to him. Whatever. Moment's over, Pen.”
Now at home, reeling from his encounter with Penelope, he plops down onto his bed staring up at the ceiling. Dread washes over him, Oh god! I hope she doesn't think, I didn't make it seem like I was going to move there and try to see her!? Should I go back and clarify? No, you stalker. Stop it. Just enjoy the moment. Please.