Stephen's Bar: In Three Shots

I can taste the mistakes of my predecessors on the rim of this shot glass.
This Jameson smacks of Jody, Dylan, and Mario.
Jody was a sweet girl.
She wore grapefruit lip balm and leggings with a skirt on top.
Her only problem came when she confused the pool cue for a stripper's pole.
That's when she met Dylan.
He played pool from happy hour until someone like Jody walked in.
Four hours.
Three beers.
Two dollar tip.
One chance to convince Jody he wasn't a creep.
From the taste of this shot, citrus and salty sweat on the same side, Dylan was convincing.
He convinced Jody he rarely played.
Accomplice bartender plying both of their egos into sharing the same oversized pour.
But, just before their ambitions dropped to the floor, Mario licked his lips and conjured a better threshold to carry them over.
Mario washed dishes at Jody's bar.
He made the mistake of taking Dylan on in pool twice.
He came to this bar not because he liked it, but because they didn't ask for ID.
You could ask.
But he'd never have anything to show.
Other than scarred hands and a flush face, Mario's passport was riddled with heat blisters and minor cuts.
Jody never led him on.
She was nice to everyone.
And she was good with names.
She had no idea what her hospitality hosted or harbored in Mario's lonely heart.
Dylan was a scumbag.
Mario was desperate.
Jody was just looking for a good time.
One of them had to get hurt.
If only so two of them could feel pleasure.
Mario should have gone home.
Home never carded.
Home never had a posse.
Home never tolerated the empty promises of a tart.
Jody was anything but home.
She was a hole.
But not Mario's.
Tonight, she was Dylan's.
Or at least Dylan's charm.
He wanted to wear her confusion like a necklace.
She wanted to know what little spoon felt like.
Mario wanted to know the curves and caress of a woman secure and procuring his manhood.
All three would be let down.
All three should have gone home.
All three thought the dive was easy enough.
None were prepared for the reparations paid for not acknowledging the brilliance of a juke box rife with Sam Cooke and Prince.
Dylan waited in the restroom.
Mario perched around the pool table.
Jody talked to anyone who would listen.
No one left happy.
Everyone left.
Dylan went to Brooklyn and got up to teach 9-year olds algebra.
Jody went to Queens to meet her roommates and laugh with the immigrant bartender.
Mario didn't go anywhere but down.
He lost the opportunity to prove to Jody he could wash more than her glasses but rather polish her reputation.
Jody probably went home with a Greek guy questioning his sexuality.
Dylan felt his hand draw near, screamed in private ecstasy, and pretended that one worth marrying was on his right.
Jody just hummed a Portishead song knowing she was hummus and light years away from anyone's truth.
So no one went home happy, but few went home.
Those who did saw how destiny is created not earned.
Jody, Dylan, and Mario were destined to find one another.
At least two were destined to know pain.
All three did.
And then the pillow of a bar that barely wipes down itself seemed as good a place as any to take a nap.
We are awake.
We are not taking a cue from anyone.
We are a remix that everyone would pay juke box money for.
We are not lying to ourselves, or the ones who pay.
Give me Dinah.
Give me Etta.
Give me better than this pretend.
Hope Mario makes it home alright, if he ever wakes up.

Stephen's Bar: In 3 Shots

Next Stop

If they let you smoke on the train, I'd ride it all day long.
Life happens in the moments between stops.
People getting on and off and getting off to get it on.
I always wonder why people pay for television when the best shows are unveiled under the hospital lighting of the A train.
Relationships beginning and ending in the space between Columbus Circle and Penn Station.
I have fallen in love sometimes three times over in the span of one ride.
That boy that just came from the gym with a childlike nerve, knowing how good he looks with the sheen of sweat glistening on his brow, making eyes at you while he pretends to be disinterested.
Or the couple whose conversation had become tiresome somewhere between Jackson Heights and Hell's Kitchen, yet your presence now has them talking about the possibility of spicing things up a bit.
Then, there's the man so striking that you forget which was your stop.
You start to question how long you could follow him to see where he exits, and consequently how long it would take you to get back to where you were going in the first place.
It never happens on your day off.
He never gets off at your stop.
You never end up in the same coffeeshop moments later, attempting to work up the nerve to ask if this seat is taken.
And if it did happen, then taking the train wouldn't be as much fun anymore.
You'd have reached your final destination, and the fantasy is over.
You could ride freely without headphones or distractions because now you get on and off by memory.
Its obvious when you've been riding too long.
Close your eyes, and you're there.
Eventually, you open your eyes.
The coffeeshop is full of angst and 30 variations of the next great American novel in different states of development.
There's an OKCupid date heading to disaster.
And he's not there.
He transferred.
I guess that's why we have Missed Connections.
Maybe he's at another coffeeshop writing the same thing about you.
Maybe he's at a bar telling his friends how stupid he was for not saying something to you when he had the chance.
Maybe he's at Kinko's having business cards made for the next time he sees you.
Maybe he's sitting on his fire escape writing tragic poetry about how yet again he let one get away.
Next time, I'll make the connection.
What's the worst that could happen?
You compliment someone by telling him he's handsome?
He could be straight.
At least you're on the train and he probably won't hit you.
And if the embarrassment is too much to bear, all you have to do is wait for the next stop.