10.08.2001
A couple of kids from NYU rolled into my bar one late afternoon as Peter, Josh, and I sat watching an England – Australia Crickett match on the television. There was nothing else on, so Josh insisted on a little bit of culture. I didn't know the rules to crickett but judging by the score, the English didn't either so I felt like I was in good company.
With a bang, three kids in their purple NYU sweatshirts strolled in and grabbed a table near the back where it was dark and - I'm sure they hoped – it would hide their age along with everything else in the shadows. They must have just gotten out of class because everything was about one Mister Schuman and how, they wondered, he could teach a subject he knew nothing about. The three of us just stared at the three of them, unsure of how anyone could be as oblivious to the world around them as they were. Couldn't they see we were watching a game?
Josh had had enough when he leaned back and yelled, "Are you kids going to sit there all night or are you going to order a fucking drink?"
They quieted down and looked between the three of them to see who was the bravest. I was hoping that they might have some balls and hold a match, he who bled first ordered the drinks, but it seemed to be decided via telepathy and the tallest with a beard said in a weak voice from where he sat, "Can we have three Bass?"
"If you want to order, come up here," Peter said without taking his eyes off the screen.
"What," was the trembling reply.
Peter said it again, with a little more volume and a little more disdain, "If you want to order, come up here."
The taller one stood up and walked in small steps up to the bar and took a seat next to me. I didn't like it. I felt like I was sandwiched between two assholes with a student on my left and Josh on my right. The kid had some growth on his face and looked like he was going for the Ringo Starr look but his late admission to puberty wasn't allowing him to pull it off. If I had to guess, I'd say he was no older than nineteen, maybe twenty if he was really unlucky with his peach fuzz.
"Hey kid," I said to him, looking right into his eyes. He tried to avoid mine but I wouldn't let him. I had five scotch and sodas backing me up. "You ever heard of a razor?"
"What?"
"You ever heard of a razor? It'd take care of that shit on your face," I said to him. Peter smiled, still not looking away from the television.
Josh turned to look at me and scratched his own beard. "Hey, fuck off Chuck, how about that? At least this kid is going to pay in cash."
"Watch it," I told him looking back at my drink. "You might just lose your best customer."
"Best customer my ass."
"Could I have three Bass," asked the kid timidly.
"We don't have Bass," Peter responded. He said he'd never watched crickett before but he was really involved in the action on screen.
"What do you have," the kid asked clearly not wanting to push things.
"Just what you see behind the bar."
The bar had a sad liquor selection. All the bottles were dusty and old save for the scotch which they had to refresh daily and the Jack which they did every other day. Other than that they had a bottle of generic gin, a vodka that didn't look generic but I'd never heard of it before, and a rum which I knew was such because I asked as it didn't have a label. Underneath the bar were a couple of mixers and a soda gun. The beer selection was Miller, Heinekin, and Sam Adams. They also had cigarettes but only Lucky's and Chesterfields but that was because those were what Josh, Peter, and I smoked and they weren't on display.
"Can I have three Sam Adams," the kid asked.
"I've got two," said Peter without looking into the ice.
"You've only got two," Josh asked as he leaned over the bar to see what else was no longer in stock.
"I told you I was down to my last six a week ago. You never put in the order."
"Jesus Christ this place is just falling apart," Josh said with his cigarette clenched tightly between his teeth. "Do I have to do everything around here?"
"I mopped the floor the other day," I offered.
"Shut the hell up Chuck," Josh grunted.
"I'm telling you, what are you going to do when you hurt my feelings and I stop coming here?"
"Find some real paying customers."
"Well, what about a Heinekin," offered the kid just wanting to get his drinks and be back over with his friends.
"Yeah, okay," Peter mumbled trying not to look away from the game. He reached into the ice and pulled out the beers, dropping them on the bar after each on was popped open. "Twenty bucks."
"Twenty dollars for three beers," the kid said with disbelief. "What the hell kind of bar is this?"
"The kind of bar that won't ask to see your ID kid," Josh said to him with a vicious smile. "It's twenty bucks or you can go get some soda pop with your pals."
"Come on," he pleaded with whoever would listen. "Look, I've only got fifteen."
"You got any change," Josh asked.
He reached into his pocket and counted it out. "I've got twenty-three cents."
"Fine," Josh said. "But I know what you look like and if you try to come in here again, just know that you owe five bucks."
"Well, you can have my twenty-three cents," he offered hoping to lower his tab.
"I don't want your pocket lint kid," Josh said and waved him off. I finished my Scotch and tapped the bar for another. Josh gave me an ugly look because he knew that it was going on my credit while Peter refilled my glass, and marked it on my tab, still entranced by the foreign sport.