Don't Answer. It's a Trap.
Overheard at the bar last night:
Female patron (to male patron): Smell my hand. It’s musty, right?
Milk of Magnesia
I think I fell asleep on the ferry. At the very least, I was in that semi-lucid state between sleeping and waking. I was keenly sensitive to the lapping tide of the New York Bay, and the couple $4 whiskey shot/Genesee beer combos I had at International Bar toward the end of the night were splashing around uncomfortably in unison with the water. I thought I was going to hurl.
Once the boat docked, I zombie-walked through the terminal and up the ramp to the bus. The S51 is the most direct route; and thanks to the usual bus driver, it’s lightning fast. At 4 a.m., the usual driver is a man, seemingly 35-40, with a barbell piercing in his right eyebrow. He gets the hybrid bus moving, too. The bus doesn’t stop, as much as it pauses at each stop as we rocket down Bay Street. Red lights are merely suggestions.
But last night, the driver was different: a matronly woman. She drove at a careful speed and came to gentle, courteous stops. Most remarkably, she announced upcoming stops over the loudspeaker with a cheerful voice. When it came to my stop, she asked me, “Is here good, or do you want me to move up?” As if she knew where I lived. “As far up as you can go,” I said, and she took me all the way up to the corner. I thanked her, and so did my stomach.
La Strega means “the witch” in Italian. So, it would follow that Liquore Strega is a mystical drinking experience.
I drove to Boston this past winter, right before our president was inaugurated, to visit a good friend I’d met in California who had come East to visit her family. In Connecticut, the harmless flurries had turned into a full blown snow storm. My windshield wipers had turned to ice, my poor Scion slid and whirred in the slush and I had already gone too far to turn around. I had to keep going.
When I finally arrived, there was a foot of snow on the ground, enough to keep me in Boston an extra day, and after I’d dried out from the trip, my friend produced a bottle of Strega, of which we drank half.
I’m not sure what numbers amongst the “approximately 70 herbs and valuable spices” (bolds mine) that constitute this beguiling liquer, but whatever they are conjure a world-shattering level of intoxication—followed by an equally epic hangover. I should know better than to tangle with a witch.
Country Song
Before I moved back to New York, I was drinking a lot. I was unemployed and my bedroom was littered with empty half-pint flasks of Seagram’s VO (available at the cornerstore near my apartment). I must have gotten pretty tanked one night, because I woke up in my bed, face down. Unfortunately, my glasses had winded up beneath me and were badly bent. When I tried to coax them back into shape, the frame around one of the lenses snapped, and I felt my stomach sink.
I’m nearly blind without my glasses, and now I was broke and facing a cross-country drive without them. I headed to the mall, to the Lenscrafters, but they said they’d be unable to fix them. The guy there pointed me in the direction of the jeweler across the hall, and he told me he wouldn’t be able to help either. Fretting occured until the jeweler gave me the number of another jewelry shop on the other side of town. I called, and they said they could do that sort of work, but it’d cost me $50.
The problem was, I didn’t have $50. My bank account was tapped and whatever money I’d had was sunk into half-pint flasks of VO. I had a cheap Fender Squier that I bought in better times for about $250, so I took it down to the pawn shop to see if I could get anything for it. As it turned out, the guy working used to work at the music store I bought the guitar from. In fact, he’s the one who sold me the guitar.
I told him I was moving, and wasn’t going to take it with me. He looked it over and saw it was good shape and said he’d remembered selling it to me. Small towns…
“I’ll give you $50 for it,” he said.
***
The shop where I took my glasses to be repaired was split into two neighboring storefronts: one half was a second-hand store that was packed with old tube television sets and crates of VHS tapes. I told the man at the counter that I had called earlier about my glasses and he rang the store next door. A middle aged Mexican man came in, wearing glasses with numerous magnifying eyepieces attached. He scrutinized my glasses carefully and said he could fix him.
I followed him next door where an old woman took my information and wrote up my receipt. She told me it would take about an hour for the repair and tried to give me a replacement pair for the interim, but none of the drugstore reading glasses she had in her desk were much help.
“Can you see without them?” she asked.
“Not really,” I answered.
“You should go to the park,” she said, “and take a nap.”
It was a peculiar suggestion, but delivered by her weathered voice, it seemed like the most sagely advice I’d ever heard. Sleeping outdoors doesn’t appeal to me. The few times I’ve camped have not been enjoyable. But there was something so non-threatening and comforting about the way she presented the idea of a nap in the park. I knew exactly where I’d go. I squinted through the short drive to the park and walked the path until I ended up at a grove of redwood trees surrounding a picnic table. It was a spot I’d passed many times walking through the park, and I always wanted to have lunch there, but never got around to it. I entered the grove, laid out on top of the picnic table and fell into a restful, whiskey-free sleep.
Friday night, I saw Old Crow Medicine Show at Webster Hall. A friend of mine was able to get himself on the list plus one, so I was able to tag along. There was no opener, and they played for over an hour and a half. The acoustics were amazing in that big room, and they just crammed the place full of sound. No fancy amps or effects, Just soaring harmonies, electric energy and fevered musicianship. I’d seen them once before when they opened for Gillian Welch and was very impressed. I was just as pleased this time.
They took an intermission, which allowed ample time for more drinking, and the crowd was juiced. They were loud, excited and singing along. My Jameson on the rocks was served to me in a plastic cup the size of which you’d see next to a water cooler and it was filled to the brim. I spilled out of the show at 10 p.m. in search of booze opportunities elsewhere. My friend and I ended up at McCormack’s, my favorite bar, just 10 or so blocks away. I talked to some confrontational european dude who was drinking what looked like just straight whiskey and ice out of an Guinness imperial pint glass. He bought us a shot of Jagermeister, which I could only finish half of. I cleverly hid the rest. At least I thought I was clever, but not as clever as when I tried flirting with some woman who passed by on the sidewalk. She came up to me. I don’t know what we said to each other, but she smiled and left, which was probably for the best.
I passed out a little at the Ferry terminal on the way back home at around 3:30. I was sitting on the floor with my back up against the window. But I made the boat. At least I must have because I woke up on my living room couch. Did I serenade my dog?
Good times.
Singer/fiddler Ketch Secor introduced the above song by giving a shout out to Staten Island. I jumped out of my seat when he did so.
