I was going out. I deserved it. I’d had lunch — one Diet Coke, two Marlboro Lights and a Chef’s Signature Lean Cuisine. I’d even done two luxurious miles in 24 minutes on the treadmill at the gym down the block. My stomach growled, angry for being empty, but I felt thin and attractive. There’s nothing more dangerous than a girl who feels thin and attractive.
I hailed a cab to Union Hall in south Park Slope. It was warm for late October. I was meeting friends. The top floor of Union Hall has fireplaces, leather couches, an indoor bocce court and a library with actual books, where pseudo intellectuals discussed the same three writers (Hemingway, Kerouac, Salinger) between Jaeger bombs. Wrinkle-free gingham button-downs, Wayfarers even though it was dark, boat shoes because we were close to the Gowanus. These guys all went to honorary Ivies and had entry levels at their dads’ companies. The suit factory can produce a fun night. Just don’t expect them to go Dutch on your Plan B.
The line to the bar was long, so when I arrived I ordered two Jack and Diets for myself. The best investment you’ll ever make is a large tip on your first drink.
I made my way downstairs. My favorite kind of dance floor is so dark and crowded that no one notices that I can’t dance, and this was that. I swayed to the beat without spilling either drink (talent) and scanned the crowd.
Once I had a few (eight) drinks in me I had no use for the friends I came with. I talked to them all the time. I knew their deal. Whiskey made the world a warm hug. Everything and everyone was nice. Addiction, pollution, violence — these were things to worry about tomorrow.
I pushed away some young thugs wearing flat brims who were coming on stronger than my drink. It was clear they were working me together. Two guys? Maybe, but these were not my type. The night was just starting. It was too early to lower my expectations.
I walked back upstairs and outside to the patio and lit up. I saw him. He was standing alone with a beer, smoking. He was looking at his phone, the way you look at your phone when you have no one to talk to. It was easier to pick a guy up when they were separate from their bro herd.
“Hey, I’m Jessica. What’s that monkey doing on your glass?”
He had a little toy monkey hanging off the side of his pint. “It was trivia night,” he smiled.
The next two hours were a blur. So let’s call him Rick. He worked at an app. Everyone worked at an app. Liquor before beer or beer before liquor? I couldn’t remember which one was supposed to come first so I just went back and forth.
We were smoking again, out on the patio. My self-confidence was directly proportionate to my blood-alcohol level. I was Kate Moss. I pulled a bar stool between us. “Let’s arm wrestle,” I said. A command, not a question.
“Uhh, I don’t know. I bench 220. I was a high school quarterback …” he backpedaled.
“Stop making excuses,” I said.
We knelt down on the cement and put up our arms on the small uneven surface of the bar stool. He won the first round. We went left the second round.
“You’re letting me win,” I said. He just laughed. “Come on, arm wrestle me for real. Don’t be a girl!”
We went right again. My arm snapped in half. Rick had broken my humerus in two, a clean fracture. I bent my arm 90 degrees and watched my arm leave my arm. I took my left hand and held the two pieces of my right arm together. “Oh my God,” he said. He was freaking out. “Go close my tab and get us a cab. We’re going to the E.R.,” I said. Cool as a cucumber.
by Jessica Caldwell, NY Times | Read more:
Image: Maelle Doliveux
I hailed a cab to Union Hall in south Park Slope. It was warm for late October. I was meeting friends. The top floor of Union Hall has fireplaces, leather couches, an indoor bocce court and a library with actual books, where pseudo intellectuals discussed the same three writers (Hemingway, Kerouac, Salinger) between Jaeger bombs. Wrinkle-free gingham button-downs, Wayfarers even though it was dark, boat shoes because we were close to the Gowanus. These guys all went to honorary Ivies and had entry levels at their dads’ companies. The suit factory can produce a fun night. Just don’t expect them to go Dutch on your Plan B.
The line to the bar was long, so when I arrived I ordered two Jack and Diets for myself. The best investment you’ll ever make is a large tip on your first drink.I made my way downstairs. My favorite kind of dance floor is so dark and crowded that no one notices that I can’t dance, and this was that. I swayed to the beat without spilling either drink (talent) and scanned the crowd.
Once I had a few (eight) drinks in me I had no use for the friends I came with. I talked to them all the time. I knew their deal. Whiskey made the world a warm hug. Everything and everyone was nice. Addiction, pollution, violence — these were things to worry about tomorrow.
I pushed away some young thugs wearing flat brims who were coming on stronger than my drink. It was clear they were working me together. Two guys? Maybe, but these were not my type. The night was just starting. It was too early to lower my expectations.
I walked back upstairs and outside to the patio and lit up. I saw him. He was standing alone with a beer, smoking. He was looking at his phone, the way you look at your phone when you have no one to talk to. It was easier to pick a guy up when they were separate from their bro herd.
“Hey, I’m Jessica. What’s that monkey doing on your glass?”
He had a little toy monkey hanging off the side of his pint. “It was trivia night,” he smiled.
The next two hours were a blur. So let’s call him Rick. He worked at an app. Everyone worked at an app. Liquor before beer or beer before liquor? I couldn’t remember which one was supposed to come first so I just went back and forth.
We were smoking again, out on the patio. My self-confidence was directly proportionate to my blood-alcohol level. I was Kate Moss. I pulled a bar stool between us. “Let’s arm wrestle,” I said. A command, not a question.
“Uhh, I don’t know. I bench 220. I was a high school quarterback …” he backpedaled.
“Stop making excuses,” I said.
We knelt down on the cement and put up our arms on the small uneven surface of the bar stool. He won the first round. We went left the second round.
“You’re letting me win,” I said. He just laughed. “Come on, arm wrestle me for real. Don’t be a girl!”
We went right again. My arm snapped in half. Rick had broken my humerus in two, a clean fracture. I bent my arm 90 degrees and watched my arm leave my arm. I took my left hand and held the two pieces of my right arm together. “Oh my God,” he said. He was freaking out. “Go close my tab and get us a cab. We’re going to the E.R.,” I said. Cool as a cucumber.
by Jessica Caldwell, NY Times | Read more:
Image: Maelle Doliveux
