Whether housesitting for a month, watching the NYC Marathon, or just dropping in between flights - it's always open arms and laughs for days. Manhattan proper, on the other hand, has gone from frothy milk cocktails served in an utra-violence time capsule to a world of Bed Bath & Beyond and M&M stores. I'm talking full ampersand.
Even though the fun events generally take us to Brooklyn, I am forever delighted by the dotted spots left where the suits clink glasses with the scum.
Our favorite nearby joint is called the Holland Bar.
Density demands bars and diners be a long line of barstools sans tables or kid seats, and this is no exception. The CASH ONLY sign on the wall works well to repel large groups of appletini simps.
Booze is the biggest decoration in the place, the dwarfed television leaves half of the stools squinting. Second biggest feature is the jukebox, an overly-modern internet DJ that demands tips before it even considers your song.
The bartender wore eyeliner sharp enough to cut you, her mere presence demanded respect.
"You pay in cash and you pay every time", she warned. We sagely nodded with bills between two fingers and received a Budweister and a shot of Seagrams.
She immediately followed it up with the too-late caveat "oh and the bathroom is broken". Through the open door I could see the sink completely mummy-wrapped in CAUTION tape.
We had a few rounds and I immediately hit the wall. My mind scrambled to take inventory: two bottles of wine at dinner, check. two beers and two shots, check. oh right all that weed between the two. Professionals know when they are in the "shouldn't have crossed the streams" amateur zone, so I warned my boozed up comrades and ordered a water.
The reaction from the bartender was a tidal wave of latina machisma.
"Oh, so your friends get another round and you can't even keep up with them."
i can't wait for this water it is going to be perfect
"She's a woman even you can't keep up with a woman?"
oh god the bathroom is out of order
"I guess it's just water for the lightweight."
is she going to make me arm wrestle
After what felt like an eternity I had exactly what I needed to stabilize, with a new insult hurled at my head every three minutes to keep me sharp. But I'm a professional, I know when I need a fucking water so I don't bounce my own vomit off of a mummified toilet.
At this point the cute couple I am with went over to the DJ and fed it many dollars as they plead for the next few tunes. At the end of the bar sat an older man with his Tex-Mex hat alongside his beer. Beside him stood a muscular man, slicked back hair, tattoos spotting his skin. They were talking between themselves - the younger one talking extra loud, hoping to lure others into his bravado.
I take the bait and begin the banter. Not two minutes into it and he asks about me. I stumble over some words, not prepared to talk real, and mumble that I've left everything to figure out how to start over again. He stops the schtick, walks right over and immediately embraces me. It took me by complete surprise and it was exactly what I needed. To be seen by a complete stranger, for only a minute. Seconds later he reclaimed his space at the end of the bar and goes right back into F THE POLICE.
I watched my friends sigh in unison as the song changed, but not to theirs. It was Ricky Martin, and the end of the bar blew the fuck up. The old man stood up, put on his hat, and asked the bartender to dance. She strutted down the length of the bar to join him, their hips moved in immediate unison as the strongman slithered in-place, cheering the couple on.
"Ricky Martin!" he exclaimed, every 30 seconds for the duration of the song.
The energy was infectious and I started chair wiggling, catching up in conversation with my WHEN ARE OUR SONGS GOING TO PLAY friends.
Suddenly I feel a pair of hands on my hips from behind me, and I just know it's Mr. Ricky Martin himself. I go from my seated robo-pops straight into the snake, giving it a little signature glitch on each way down.
I am quickly corrected. "It's smoooooooth" instructs the deep voice behind me. I comply, axing the me and going full salsa serpent. "Ahhhh!". Ricky Martin is pleased, and dances back to his beer.
The rest of the bar only averts their gaze once the song goes quiet. I have found my fortitude. Don't you just love it when the room stops spinning?
The "DJ" starts playing another song, and another, none of which are the songs my pals paid for. They aren't having it.
After a while the familar sounds of Destroyer fill the bar. This singer-songwriter is often grating to most people on first listen, but he is so very my New York soundtrack and always marks a certain settled comfort here. Our tunes keep on coming, I find my footing again, and order another pint of their finest swill.
As we wind down the night our final request comes on. I push myself away from the barstool, face the wall, and begin dancing.
Ricky Martin takes immediate notice and his commentary just fuels my fire. It's been an eternity since I've danced in a bar. Maybe two since I've danced in a bar, alone.
"Ah yeah!"
"Preach it!"
Church is in session and I'm hitting the eighth notes with my hips. The beat has taken hold of my body and it's a cathartic worship service to everything I couldn't be during the pandemic. Reclaiming myself wholly on a Monday night with my own tiny congregation.
"Oooooh!"
"Alright!"
"YESSSSS"
The song fades and with tears in my eyes I turn to face the audience. The tough bartender gives me a smile and a nod. I turn to Mr. Martin and say goodbye.
"Sometimes you just gotta dance it out."
He gets it. New York gets it. Millions of people, free to be themselves. No hipsters with furled eyebrows anywhere on the horizon. A bar full of the uncool, at the coolest spot in Manhattan.
My favorite part of going out here are the best friends you make, for only a night.
