reverse time-lapse photography, the days played out in his mind in a matter of seconds but never seemed to change. The same food being eaten. The same drinks being poured. The same customers and the same greasy tips.
John was swirling his finger in a small puddle of beer when he heard the familiar whistle of the first few bars of Billy Joel's “Piano Man” drift across the bar. The whistling grew louder until the chorus ended and a thin man wearing an ill-fitted blazer and maroon turtleneck slapped his palms down and leaned forward theatrically.
“Now John at the bar is a friend of mine,” he crooned. “And he gets me my drinks for free…” He held the 'e' in free until John had a chance to make sure Artie wasn't looking. Then they sang the rest together, in perfect off-key harmony. “And he's quick with a joke, and to light up your smoke, but there's some place that he'd rather be.” John filled a glass with dark beer and set it in front of an empty stool.
“Too bad Bloomberg hasn't banned shitty singing,” John said. “And you came in a beat late on the third line.”
“Bull shit , you were a beat fast.” Paul Shrader sat down and took a long, healthy sip. Paul and John had been roommates going on ten years, dating back to the tiny room freshman dorm room. After graduation they'd moved into their current four-story walkup in alphabet city, which, despite the occasional drug sting and millions of Chinese takeout menus mysteriously finding their way under the door, had been a more than adequate dwelling for six years.
Paul took a look around the bar and jerked his thumb in the direction of Mr. Scotch and Soda.
“Ponytails are the new mullet. Nobody wears them anymore except pretentious artists and flashback-ridden hippies.” He sipped his beer and licked his lips.
“Unfortunately I can't refuse to serve anyone based on hairstyle.” Paul shook his head as if to say well, you should.
“Guess I should drink up before the cattle call starts.”
“Maybe it's time you settle your tab before you drink up.” Paul dug into his pocket and produced a ball of blue lint that he carefully placed on a coaster.
“Keep the change,” he said.
“Well,” John said, inspecting the specimen. “Now I can finally afford to buy you that tool kit so you can go screw yourself.” They noticed Artie walking by, his leather jacket making ripe noises. Paul raised his drink.
“Arthur, good to see you again. Fine establishment you're running here.” Artie gave him a smile and kept walking. Paul waited until he'd left, then rummaged in his pocket. “Found these in the shower this morning.” He held up a plastic lunch bag containing three black hairs. John groaned.
“Still think you're going bald?”
Paul shook his head. “I don't think I am, I know I am. This proves it. Pretty soon you'll be using my head to buff this countertop.”
“Man, if you're so concerned go on Rogaine or something.”
“No way. Only people I know on Rogaine are bald.” Man had a point.
“Hey stranger,” Stacy said, balancing a plate of wings on her hand as she gave Paul a quick peck on the cheek.
“Hey yourself,” he said. “So when are we going for that dinner you promised me?” Stacy put her free hand on her hips and smiled slyly.
“I don't remember saying I'd have dinner with you.”
“Oh, you must have been drunk,” Paul said. “Yeah, I'm pretty sure you were. Don't try and weasel out now, you already said yes. I know a great steak place on Houston. It's impossible to get a reservation but,” he shot his cuffs, “they know me there.”
Stacy snapped her fingers. “Ooh, that's a shame. I'm a vegetarian. Anyway, I'd better run. Some asshole got on me before for letting his burger drop below 600 degrees.” She hustled off. Paul took a sip of his beer.
“Care to join me in a shot?” he said.
“Not right now,”
“Why not? I doubt Artie'd fire you for getting a little sauced on the job.”
“I know that, but
John was swirling his finger in a small puddle of beer when he heard the familiar whistle of the first few bars of Billy Joel's “Piano Man” drift across the bar. The whistling grew louder until the chorus ended and a thin man wearing an ill-fitted blazer and maroon turtleneck slapped his palms down and leaned forward theatrically.
“Now John at the bar is a friend of mine,” he crooned. “And he gets me my drinks for free…” He held the 'e' in free until John had a chance to make sure Artie wasn't looking. Then they sang the rest together, in perfect off-key harmony. “And he's quick with a joke, and to light up your smoke, but there's some place that he'd rather be.” John filled a glass with dark beer and set it in front of an empty stool.
“Too bad Bloomberg hasn't banned shitty singing,” John said. “And you came in a beat late on the third line.”
“Bull shit , you were a beat fast.” Paul Shrader sat down and took a long, healthy sip. Paul and John had been roommates going on ten years, dating back to the tiny room freshman dorm room. After graduation they'd moved into their current four-story walkup in alphabet city, which, despite the occasional drug sting and millions of Chinese takeout menus mysteriously finding their way under the door, had been a more than adequate dwelling for six years.
Paul took a look around the bar and jerked his thumb in the direction of Mr. Scotch and Soda.
“Ponytails are the new mullet. Nobody wears them anymore except pretentious artists and flashback-ridden hippies.” He sipped his beer and licked his lips.
“Unfortunately I can't refuse to serve anyone based on hairstyle.” Paul shook his head as if to say well, you should.
“Guess I should drink up before the cattle call starts.”
“Maybe it's time you settle your tab before you drink up.” Paul dug into his pocket and produced a ball of blue lint that he carefully placed on a coaster.
“Keep the change,” he said.
“Well,” John said, inspecting the specimen. “Now I can finally afford to buy you that tool kit so you can go screw yourself.” They noticed Artie walking by, his leather jacket making ripe noises. Paul raised his drink.
“Arthur, good to see you again. Fine establishment you're running here.” Artie gave him a smile and kept walking. Paul waited until he'd left, then rummaged in his pocket. “Found these in the shower this morning.” He held up a plastic lunch bag containing three black hairs. John groaned.
“Still think you're going bald?”
Paul shook his head. “I don't think I am, I know I am. This proves it. Pretty soon you'll be using my head to buff this countertop.”
“Man, if you're so concerned go on Rogaine or something.”
“No way. Only people I know on Rogaine are bald.” Man had a point.
“Hey stranger,” Stacy said, balancing a plate of wings on her hand as she gave Paul a quick peck on the cheek.
“Hey yourself,” he said. “So when are we going for that dinner you promised me?” Stacy put her free hand on her hips and smiled slyly.
“I don't remember saying I'd have dinner with you.”
“Oh, you must have been drunk,” Paul said. “Yeah, I'm pretty sure you were. Don't try and weasel out now, you already said yes. I know a great steak place on Houston. It's impossible to get a reservation but,” he shot his cuffs, “they know me there.”
Stacy snapped her fingers. “Ooh, that's a shame. I'm a vegetarian. Anyway, I'd better run. Some asshole got on me before for letting his burger drop below 600 degrees.” She hustled off. Paul took a sip of his beer.
“Care to join me in a shot?” he said.
“Not right now,”
“Why not? I doubt Artie'd fire you for getting a little sauced on the job.”
“I know that, but
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