10-21-36
I scurried out of my apartment room with a backpack dangled on my spine and notebook in hand, dodging various hotel workers and fellow residents on my way towards the exit. My journey through the elevator, although arduous, was short-lived, and I was relieved to indeed be at my destination. Now I jaunted out victorious, beating the trials of both time and crowded hallways to embark on a new quest across the even more trying seas of New York City infrastructure and transit.
Oh, yes, it was a beast. Cars buzzing by at electrifying speeds, New Yorkers of all types rushing to work, school or to just argue about some political bullshit with their friends, pigeons begging for you to either end their monotonous existence or step aside so they could consume their barely-edible lot of bread crumbs and meat chunks strewn nicely on the ground. It was quite the experience to be in this mercilessly quick and overwhelming machine, although one that left an everlasting impression on me. Now, where were we? Oh, yeah, the bar.
Peterson's Bar. The Crown Jewel of New York entertainment. If a man with a strangely designed 'N' and 'Y' cap says no to this objective assumption, you are to immediately deem him as either an insane man or a liar. This was drunk, talkative heaven, I say. Maybe a heaven even better than the real one! Well, if there is one, though. Anyway…
I gently opened the doors after breathing in a great gust of air from the outside world to enter this new and exotic place of coziness. I could see waiters delectably dealing drink and food to the delighted denizens of this fine, fine establishment. Their faces were as gay and joyous as could be, allowing the bar's inhabitants to take pride in their drinking away of their lives with a smile. After this bit of prolonged gawking, I sat down on a roughly polished stool beside my trio of friends present there.
"Heya, Rick. It's a beautiful day, and we're having fun drinking our asses off. I saved one for ya, too. Have a sip," spoke the generous and cordial David Milton White in his usual hard New Jersey accent, an old college friend of mine. His skin was of the palest you could ever set your eyes on, he had large emerald eyes, an elongated but thin nose, puffy cheeks, stalky legs and fuzzy blonde hair. His magnanimity was near unmatched by anyone on this Earth: I'm sure he would take Jesus' spot on the cross if he could.
"Nice to see you again, Rick. I say, every time you come 'ere this place gets twice as lively," said a certain Jacob Bradley Howard in his light Brooklyn accent, a no-nonsense person with double the balls of anyone I knew. He had a nose that was so big I swore it covered a third of his fucking face, small eyes of light blue, a pure-black haystack for 'hair' and an incredibly athletic build.
"Ey, it's nice to see a friend who blabbers both politics and the usual dumb shit. You're just gold, Rick," barked the colored Jason Mavis Baker in a bit of a mixed Pittsburgh-Queens accent, possibly my closest friend, if I was arrogant enough to have one, heh. He was fixed with brown eyes, silvery locks of hair bearing the exact same color, and a physique screaming 'average joe' in your ear. That would be quite rude, though.
"Ah, shucks, it's like I'm getting ass-kissed thrice, which, now that I imagined it, would be very painful. So, let's just talk, yeah?" And there it was. My words kicked off a ride of vocal cord ringing and dinging that would make a doorbell blush. Of such memorable conversation to make any long-winded speech seem like a normal Sunday afternoon. Oh, the emotions! Oh, the comedy!
"So…whatcha think of the Syndies?"