Fish Out of Water

I drank my first beer on a barstool at a crowded dive in the East Village called Downtown Beirut in the late fall of 1992. I hated beer—still do—but my roommate and I had pooled our cash and bought a pitcher of their cheapest draught when we discovered that was all we had enough money for. As I nursed from my pint glass, I ran a cost/benefit analysis of suffering the lukewarm piss vs. not getting a buzz. Conclusion: I was way too uncomfortable to sit there stone sober, and I was way too stubborn to leave. Bottoms up.

I’d chosen a college in New York City to escape my small seaside town near Portland, Maine. It wasn’t a bad town, and since then it’s done quite well for itself, now boasting its own exit off I-95 and hair-raising property values. But from a tender young age, it was clear it didn’t appreciate my company, and by my teen years, the feeling was mutual. I’d arrived in the big city that August with the requisite 90s freak wardrobe of black, camo, plaid, red lipstick, and Doc Martens, eager to find my tribe.

“This one says it’s dark, dingy, and has a warning about the ‘weird clientele.’” I handed the Barnard Student Guide to New York City to my roommate, Janet, who had agreed to go on an adventure with me that night. I like people who are up for anything. I’m not one of those people.

“And this is a good thing?” Janet peered at me over the guidebook.

“Totally,” I assured her. “Normal people freak me out. Weird people, I get.”

With great effort, we navigated ourselves from Manhattan’s Upper West Side to Astor Place on the subway, then hurried to First Avenue between 9th and 10th Streets through a bitter mist. The sudden change from the cold outside to the humid, sweat-and-smoke-saturated air inside was disorienting, but when my eyes adjusted, I was sure I’d entered Narnia’s sewer. The walls were painted black, and the low ceiling was covered by a network of exposed ductwork and heavy iron pipes, giving the small, narrow room the feeling of being literally underground. A long bar covered most of the right side of the room. I spotted two open barstools at the far end of the bar, near the bathrooms and across from the Duck Hunt video game, so we settled in there.

The clientele was weird, as promised, but it wasn’t what I expected. Like the weirdos back home, this crowd heavily favored black. Black jeans, black band tees, black hair dye. Less makeup than I expected, and less queerness, which made me uneasy. Though my black Docs connected me to the vibe enough to not feel completely out of place, I felt overdressed in my vintage red satin and black lace dress. I psychically willed the jukebox to play a song I knew; music never failed to ground me.

#

It turned out that a pair of decent-looking greenhorns such as Janet and I did not sit unattended at Downtown Beirut very long. The first to chat us up was an older gentleman named Bob, who, in his silver suit jacket and black button-up shirt, looked about as out of place as we felt. He was waiting for a date to arrive—odd place for a date, but OK—and chatting with him helped me relax a bit. 

When Bob’s date showed up, his companionship was replaced almost immediately by Steve and Jamie, a pair of college students from Hunter. They were more age appropriate, but not my type at all: tall, muscular, conventionally attractive, workplace-acceptable hair, T-shirts that weren’t black. No thanks. But they seemed nice enough, if a little less developed in mental capacity than physique, and it was nice to feel noticed in a place like this, whatever kind of place this was.

When I finally got down to my last glass of beer, I was quite eager to finish it. As much as I hated the stuff, I’d spent good money on it, and I would drink that damn pitcher down to the last drop whether I liked it or not, goddammit. I tried drinking in bigger gulps to hasten an end to my suffering, but the suds kept threatening to creep back up. By then I couldn’t really taste it much anymore, but I hadn’t got over the texture: not quite water, not quite soda, like too many tiny, pissed-off bubbles all crammed onto a lifeboat, sailing over my tongue only to fight it out in my throat. Still, I persevered.

Despite having to fend off multiple advances from Steve (gross) and despite the shitty beer, I fell in love with Downtown Beirut. The jukebox was delightfully unpredictable, and I finally recognized some of the songs. Everyone at the bar seemed to know each other, and the night was punctuated by boisterous singalongs and group hugs. At some point during that last glass of beer, I found I was no longer in such a rush to finish. Luckily, I’d been drinking so slowly I still had plenty left every time I checked my progress. I could drink and drink, and that last glass just wouldn’t end. What a magical night!

When the evening’s litany of loud and fast selections gave way to Tom Jones’s “What’s New Pussycat?” the entire bar seemed to stop in its tracks. Every reveler sang along at the top of their lungs while swinging their glasses high in the air. Janet, the Ken dolls, and I all joined in, of course, our arms draped around each other. I was in heaven. Nothing makes me happier than social rituals; they are the closest I get to church. If I made a highlight reel of “Top Ten Moments in a Bar”—and being honest, I now have many, many of those moments to choose from—that one would easily appear on it.

By then I was having so much fun that even the tiny bubbles didn’t bother me so much. I drank down the last of my glass of beer in one long haul and was surprised to feel a pang of disappointment. That feeling only lasted a moment, however, because as soon as I put the empty glass down on the bar, Steve reached over my shoulder, picked up a half-full pitcher of beer, and refilled it.

And so the mystery of the bottomless glass was solved.

Uh oh.

I was struck by a sudden and violent urge to piss. For the first time since we’d walked into the bar, I wriggled my 5’3” self off my barstool only to find that my legs were not where they belonged. I landed in an ungraceful heap on the floor. When I managed to climb back onto my sea legs, I wove my way to the bathroom to rid myself of some of the evening’s festivities.

I returned to find Janet alone at the bar, gathering her things.

“Jamie says we can all go to hisssspartment and hang out,” she yelled over the music, her words stretching out and bumping into each other. “Lesssgo!”

“We need to go home, Janet.”

“But. They. Have. Beer!” Her smile was goofy. Janet was not a goofy person.

This could not be happening. I’m from Maine, for God’s sake!

“Janet, listen: That is not safe. We have to go. Together. Home. Now.”

#

A male voice came from behind me. “She’s right.”

It was Bob, the silver-suit-jacket dude from earlier. He was sweaty, his jacket off, half of his black shirt untucked. His dark brown hair was sticking up on one side, but not messy in the way that messy hair was cool.

“Where’s your date?” I blurted out. “Why do you look like that? Have you been here all night?”

“Making out with that guy over there,” he began, pointing to an enthusiastic couple near the front of the room, “been a shitty night for several reasons, some of them obvious, and yes, I’ve been here, partly keeping an eye on you.”

“OK…weird…” I was creeped out by the idea of being watched all night.

“I take it you don’t know the assholes you’ve been talking to all night.”

Janet and I looked at each other and shrugged.

“Well, I do. And they are not cool. At all." We looked at him skeptically, so he continued. "Believe me, they are shitty fucking dudes.”

“But…like, what do you mean shitty? Shitty how?” Janet looked like someone just stole her cookie. I think she was hot for Jamie.

“Shitty like the kind of dudes that spend the whole night pouring beer into underage girls.”

I looked away. My cheeks burned.

He continued. “I’ve been trying to figure out how to warn you about them for the last two fucking hours but you never fucking moved. Jesus! Do you have horse bladders?!”

“I wasn’t paying attention, dude,” I said, humiliated and more than a little annoyed that I was being scolded in the middle of a bar by some guy I barely knew. “We’re leaving anyway.”

“I know. I came in to walk you out. I was just outside cooling off, and while I was out there, those bozos came out and started talking about you. Sounded like you guys were planning on heading over to Jamie’s place, so I came in to find you and cut you off. They’re not gonna be as happy as I am to find out you changed your mind.”

The next thing I remember was arguing with the Ken dolls outside the bar, then standing with Janet on the sidewalk a few feet down the block. Bob’s back was turned toward us, his figure like a shadow under the bar’s floodlight. Jamie and Steve stood shoulder to shoulder facing him, too close, looking down at him. Bob’s arms gestured as he appeared to try to de-escalate the situation, but the high-on-brawn, low-on-brain Ken dolls weren’t interested. A solid shove from Jamie sent Bob sailing into the bar’s flyer-covered glass façade, eliciting gasps from Janet and me.

Luckily, the glass didn’t shatter. Instead, Bob’s body ricocheted off the thick pane, and he used the momentum of that motion to hurl his head into Jamie’s breadbasket. Steve grabbed Bob under the arms from behind while Jamie righted himself.

Janet and I yelled in unison and rushed toward them.

“Stop it!”

“Leave him alone!”

Just then, the door to the bar burst open, and a third, far more authoritative voice joined our chorus of objections: the unofficial “bouncer,” aka the biggest guy in the bar.

“You’re done, clowns!” he yelled. Steve immediately let go of Bob, who stumbled forward and almost fell into the interloper. The man laid one hand on one of Bob’s shoulders and the other on Jamie’s. “Anyone wanna tell me I’m wrong?”

“We were just leaving,” Bob assured him, staring Jamie down.

The astonishingly large man glared at Jamie to get his response, and Jamie shrugged in an action that was half agreement and half feeble attempt to shake himself free of the heavy hand on his shoulder.

“Y’all have a good night now,” the man said in a tone that was both firm and pleasant, dropping his arms to his sides and leaning his substantial weight against the wall next to the door. He slowly reached into his pockets, took a box of Camels out of one and a lighter out of the other, then lit a cigarette, his eyes never leaving Jamie.

“Come on,” Bob muttered as he approached where Janet and I were standing, now frozen in our spots. “I’m taking you both home. Or, back to school, I presume?”

“Wait, what?” I remained frozen. “You’re telling us it’s dangerous to go to this guy’s apartment, then you want us to climb into your CAR?!”

“How were you planning on getting home?” he asked, exasperation dripping from his voice.

“The subway!” Janet and I answered in unison.

“OK, ladies,” Bob said, crossing his arms and leaning back on his heels. He spoke slowly and calmly, letting his words sink in. “Tell me, how exactly will you get there?”

Shut the fuck up, Bob.

“What train do you need? Do you know?”

Touché, Bob. Touché.

“Where is the station? I’ll walk you there if you tell me where it is.”

Fuck you, Bob.

Newsflash! We were drunk, broke, and had no fucking idea how to get home.

The term “sobering reality” is used to describe moments when a person encounters information so stunning that they are immediately rendered serious and thoughtful, such that they may examine the situation before them with a clear head.

That’s exactly not what happened. Reality hit me hard in that moment, sure. But instead of becoming clear, my head completely short circuited. My vision darkened and narrowed until I could barely see past my own arm. Remaining on my feet was a challenge. And words—oh my God. Words were fucking hard.

“No car,” I managed to force out of my mouth. “Dangerous.”

“Dangerous? How is my car more dangerous than getting lost on the subway?”

“Stranger.” I pointed at him smugly to clarify. Enough said.

Bob took a long sigh. “You’re right, I am a stranger. But look at it this way: I am one stranger. Think about it. In my car, there will be one stranger.” He held up one finger. “On the subway, there will be many strangers.” He waved one hand in every direction to illustrate where the strangers would be.

Janet turned to me, her eyes serious. “Does that make sense?”

“Dunno. Maybe.”

“Now that that’s settled, where are we going?”

“Barnard.”

“Where’s that?”

“Columbia.”

“Columbia University? Like uptown?” He looked us over again, only this time, it looked more like he was inspecting an alien species.

“Thassit,” I spit out. My brain hurt. I missed being able to communicate. I shook my head to try to restore the connection between my brain and my mouth.

When we reached Bob’s two-door coupe, he unlocked the passenger door. When I asked him to move the passenger seat forward so Janet and I could both get in the back, he explained that Camaro backseats were not built for two full-sized adults. One of us should sit in front, he instructed, and the other in the back.

Drunk logic immediately determined this was some kind of trick. He wanted to separate us. Attack us one at a time.

I backed away from the car. “We need to stay together.”

“Seriously, it’s not designed for humans back there. It’s a sports car. You’ll be a lot more comfortable this way.”

Drunk logic came up with a perfectly sensible plan. “I know! We’ll both be in the front!” It was the only way we’d both be safe from certain death.

“That’s not—”

“Two small people will fit,” I insisted. “Right, Janet? You sit on my lap. It’s better.”

“I guess so?” Janet did not look convinced. Janet did not understand drunk logic.

Bob took a deep breath. “Fine, but let’s get moving before I have to go another round with our buddies over there. I’ve had a shitty enough night, I don’t need to end it getting the shit kicked out of me. There are two of them, and they’re bigger than me.”

I respected his self-awareness.

I settled into the white leather bucket seat, and Janet, rather than sitting on my lap, somehow folded herself into the tiny space between my feet under the console, laying her upper body across my left thigh, her head against my hip. I watched the city pass by as we drove uptown, searching for anything familiar that would give me an idea of where we were. Three months earlier, I’d been living in the town I’d grown up in; I couldn’t get lost there if I tried. That’s actually a fact; I tried several times. But there I was, hopelessly lost in a massive city, piss drunk, in some random guy’s Camaro. My mother would kill me if Bob didn’t.

Bob took a route that cut through Central Park, and I held my breath, waiting for him to stop the car, pull out a knife, and skin us in the dark woods. Instead, he made small talk. He’d never met anyone from Barnard before. He wondered what it was like at Columbia, what we were studying, why we’d decided to hang out at Downtown Beirut of all places.

Before long, we were parked, skin-on, in front of the ornate iron gates of the Barnard campus at 116^th Street and Broadway. I woke up Origami Janet, who had somehow managed to fall asleep despite her awkward position. Bob came around to help her unfold herself from the cramped space, then helped me out onto the sidewalk. It seemed like an awfully long way up from that low bucket seat. I’ll never get the sports car thing.

“Thanks for the ride, man,” Janet said.

“Yeah,” I agreed. “And for…the other stuff. You know. Sorry for the trouble.”

“It’s OK,” Bob replied. “Glad you’re safe.”

“Me, too,” I agreed. I wondered if he’d ask for my phone number, but he didn’t. As he walked around the car to the driver’s side door, I added, “Hey! I’m sorry about your date. She was super hot.”

“She was out of my league.”

“Eh, maybe,” I agreed, then smiled for the first time since the evening went south. “I think you’re pretty cool though.”

“Thanks.” Bob smiled back.

As I watched the Camaro’s taillights disappear down Broadway, I promised myself I'd never need another Bob again.