Jersey Boys

July 4, 2004

There's only one bar within a 10-block radius of where I live, and little else. So when I put my clothes in my building’s dilapidated dryer, that’s where I went to kill time.

I don't have any friends in my neighborhood. Not really. I mean, sure, I know my neighbors and I'll say hi when I see them -- last night I even hung out with the girl next door for a little while. But seriously, when I go to the neighborhood bar, chances are I'll be drinking alone.

However, when you sit alone at this bar, whether you like it or not, it doesn't take long for someone to start talking to you. And the first person who did was a plant hippy who knew the bartender.

When someone who knows the bartender starts talking to you, it's generally in your best interest to talk back. He introduced me to the girl tending bar, whom I recognized from the neighborhood. If I hadn't seen her the other day canoodling on the street with a similarly attractive young girl, I may have tried turning up the charm. But as it was, I kept the charm at an even keel.

The bartender introduced me to a few f her friends: A six foot tall, stick-thin white girl with tight clothes and bad tattoos; a half Mexican, gay guy from San Francisco; and an average height, but above-average-weight, black girl from Colorado. I knew the gay dude was half Mexican because he said so twice. Who knows why? But he did.

Anyway, the gay half-Mexican was the ring leader. Or rather, the loudest of the bunch, and as a result, he was directing the conversation. I was only half listening, but eventually he called over and asked my name. "Jamie," I told them, and was then introduced to the whole motley crew -- though please don't quiz me on the names.

After that, the guy asked where I was from.

"I grew up in New Jersey," I said. “If that’s what you mean.”

"Jersey? " he yelped. "We love the Jersey boys. Don't we girls?"

"What's not to love?" I said.

"Exactly, " he replied.

"Did you just say, 'What's not to love?'" the black girl asked. She shook her head and smiled.

He continued: "All the best boys come from Jersey. New York is so boring. The cutest boys are always from New Jersey."

"Yeah," I said, "Bon Jovi and me — keeping the faith."

The hippy laughed, but my sarcasm didn't register with anyone else, although I'm pretty sure no one else heard me.

"He sounds just like him, doesn't he?" the gay guy whispered to the skinny chick.

"Sound like who?" I asked.

"It's that Jersey accent," the hippy said to me.

"I suppose I can’t deny I have a Jersey accent. But a lot of people do. Who, specifically, do I sound like?"

“He sounds just like Johnny's barber," the gay guy said, looking to the two girls for agreement.

Once I heard that, I dropped the subject.

The hippy and the skinny girl went out for a smoke. When they came back in, the girl called a car service to take her home. When the car arrived, she said good night to everyone but the hippy.

“Oh well,” said the hippy, “now that she's gone, there's nothing left to look at in the bar. I may as well go home, too."

Then the hippy turned to the Colorado-black-chick and the half-Mexican-gay-guy and said in reference to the skinny girl, "I guess I made her mad. I was joking around with her. I thought she was cool with it. But I think I pissed her off."

"Don't worry about it," the gay guy said, "It's just her way."

“No," the hippy went on. "I do that. I say things trying to be funny, but only wind up making people mad."

“No, really," the guy said, "She liked you. She really did.”

I laughed out loud. The girl essentially stormed out. If she’d liked him earlier, she didn’t like him now. The gay guy gave me a weird, bugged-out look. Half-smile, half-who knows what.

Okay wait. I'm taking a long time to get around to this: Last call came, and as everyone else but our little group was leaving, the gay guy squeezed up next to me. Then, after about 30 seconds of standing there and not saying much, I felt him staring at me. When I turned to look, he moved in for a kiss. I pulled away and turned my head to the side, and he backed off, embarrassed. Neither of us said anything.

I figured I'd better just drink up and get the fuck out of there before he tried anything else, so I finished my drink and went to the bathroom for a quick piss. As I stood there in the toilet with the door securely locked behind me, I heard someone trying to get in. "Oh fuck, " I thought to myself, "It's that dude. I bet he figured I came in here to go at it with him in private— highway rest area style. I’m so stupid."

Sure enough, after I zipped up and opened the door, there he was, all googly-eyed. I stepped past him, the way I would walk by any other dude waiting in line for the pisser, except a lot more intent on avoiding any eye contact. He hesitated for a moment, then went into the toilet himself. After he closed the bathroom door behind him and was safely out of sight, I breezed past the bartender and the black chick -- gave them each a nod and a "Goodnight," then pushed through the heavy door and into the light of the full moon. Or nearly full anyway. Fireflies hovered in the scattered weeds, and someone shot off a bottle rocket from a nearby roof. It whisled and popped. "Well," I said to myself, walking briskly toward home, "that doesn't happen every day."

I stopped by the laundry room on the basement of my building, pulled out my still-damp clothes, and carried them to my loft. I scattered them all over the furniture to dry, and fell into bed.