Back in August, I had a date that I came thisclose to canceling -- partly because I had never actually met him in person and I'm always a little bit terrified of being stabbed on first Internet dates, but mostly because it wasn't scheduled to start until 9:45 on a Monday night.
"That's my bedtime!," I told Serria, my roommate who refused to listen to my excuses even though she knows I prefer to be either asleep or aggressively watching Netflix before the clock hits four digits. Like a true friend, she all but pushed me out the door of the apartment, eerily similar to how she'd once forced me out of a cab almost two years earlier when I was starting to get cold feet about confronting a dude who had ghosted me.
But, I was glad she made me go. I had a lovely time, even if it was one of those good, but not great dates where you know you're never going to see the person again. At the end of the date, we awkwardly shook hands before he kissed me and, the next day, I had to drink two extra cups of coffee to stay awake, like the true 87-year-old grandmother I am.
I didn't use to have the bedtime of an elder or an infant, though. A little over a year ago, you could find me out until all hours of the night, going on dates at bars all over the city, making random new friends and still coming into work fresh in the morning as if I had gone to bed at a reasonable hour and not just hastily purchased all the clothing I was wearing from the Urban Outfitters down the street because I didn't have time to make it home to put together an acceptable outfit before rolling into the office.
For awhile, you could find me all over the city, but after a certain time, you could usually find me at Barfly.
Zach Groth moved here four months before I did, a fact he likes to remind me of constantly despite the fact I was born in New York, cementing my belonging here forever. But, I let him have it, reminding him that in those four months before I arrived, he had exactly zero friends, save for the bartender at the bar closest to his apartment where he frequently drank alone.
And, of course, that bar was Barfly.
After I moved here, it was six months before Zach let me meet his first friend. We'd gone to Barfly a handful of times together, but he'd always made sure it was when that specific bartender wasn't working.
"I don't want you to ruin this for me," ZG told me as we sat at the bar on that night in June and I shook the bartender's hand before he left to get us drinks. While it seems rude, this is valid. Zach and I accidentally ruin a lot of things for each other (see: the time he got blacked out and came on a second date with me, see: the time I met his new friends and told them I thought Zach had been making them all up for months, see: when I asked him to be cool meeting the guy I'd invited to my housewarming and, instead, he yelled "OH MY GOD, SHE GOT A BLOODY NOSE ON YOU, YOU DESERVE A MEDAL!", see: the time a beautiful man kissed me, but had to stop to go save Zach because he was drunk and drowning next to us, see: literally anytime we are around each other ever).
"This guy was my only friend," ZG told me, extremely serious. "And this is my favorite bar. You can't date him."
I laughed and agreed. It seemed funny at the time because back then, I was dating Jamie, the 30-year-old skateboarder who liked to use a lit candle as a car freshener and whose only plans for his birthday were to drop a "dope amount" of acid in the woods with his friends. In fact, the only reason I was with ZG at Barfly at 10:30 on a Tuesday night was because we were pre-gaming my date with Jamie (you know, like how real adults do).
ZG and I the night we were pre-gaming my date. We've come so far in two-and-a-half years (we haven't come far at all).
"I promise," I told him, clinking our beers together in cheers. "I won't date the Barfly bartender."
Almost exactly eight months later, I was on my first date with the Barfly bartender.
On the night ZG refers to as "The Night I Ruined His Favorite Bar for Him, Forever," because he is dramatic AF, I stayed at Barfly past Serria and him under the pretense that our pitcher was still half full and I'm not one to waste beer. This was true, but I also wanted to write -- I had been doing some of my best writing on napkins when I was buzzed at bars, waiting for the bartender I thought I was dating who I actually was not to be finished at work. When that relationship/non-relationship/actual disaster started blowing up pretty spectacularly because I am a legitimate crazy person and boys don't like it when you write about them on the Internet (or show up v intoxicated and irate at their place of employment an amount of times I'm not comfortable publicly disclosing), I had stopped my practice of writing while sipping on beer.
So, after Zach and Serria left, I moved myself, my half full pitcher of Bud Light ("I'm a very adventurous beer drinker," ZG stated, right before he ordered us each our own) and the tiny black notebook filled with my thoughts up to the main bar, sitting directly across from Zach's very first NYC friend. After he'd topped off the rest of my pitcher, I reached out my hand to once again introduce myself to the guy I'd promised I'd never date.
Like a real pro, I said, "By the way, I'm Jen," and he was like "I know. You've come here literally every Thursday and Sunday for months and, also, you throw every shot of tequila your friends buy for you over your shoulder instead of actually taking it, so I have to clean the floor extra whenever you show up. I definitely know who you are."
You know me, guys, a real charmer.
We chatted for awhile about a lot of things -- my inability to take shots in comparison to Zach and Serria's pure, deep, visceral love for tequila, the regulars at the bar, the night we'd met when I was dating Jamie. And, all of the sudden, it was very, very late. He gave me some fries before I left (the true, OG way to my hearts, friends) and then, as I signed my receipt, I also included my phone number (not that we're keeping score, but I am 3/3 with this move and bartenders), internally apologizing to ZG for my inability to follow his directions as I put down my pen.
Then, to Zach's horror, the next night, I was on a date with his first friend.
We only went on that one date and it was extremely lovely -- which was exactly what I needed. This was back in 2016 and around the same time it was officially sinking in that the (other) bartender I had been seeing who was also seeing other people really did not want anything to do with me. (This did not stop me from showing up at his bar unannounced constantly like an actual trash rat, but the knowledge was there which, TBH, probably makes it worse, officially culminating months later in humiliation when I showed up half-dead from intoxication on Halloween dressed as Snake Taylor Swift -- I am nothing if not pettily irrelevant -- speaking literal gibberish about how much I missed him until he loaded me in a cab at 7 a.m. and didn't see or speak to me again for a full calendar year).
So, yeah, I needed a good date and this one delivered on all fronts.
But, after our date and because this bartender was a grown-ass adult who thought about all the possible outcomes and scenarios of situations before they came to fruition, he told me we couldn't go out again since I was a regular at his bar and he didn't want to jeopardize either of our experiences at Barfly. (I've literally never been more honored to be rejected, calling Serria to tell her "He called us Barfly regulars!" before delivering the news we would not, in fact, be going on any further dates).
Though I was disappointed, his logic of not wanting to complicate things was sound (see: the above Halloween debacle), so, me, also an adult, agreed we shouldn't go out again -- then proceeded to spend every Thursday and Sunday night for literal weeks at his bar having only vodka tonics for dinner and trying to convince him to date me. When Zach commented on the amount of time I was spending alone at Barfly, I told him it wasn't because I didn't have a lack of friends like he did when he'd moved here, but because I figured I'd either wear the bartender down enough that he would have to date me or quit.
You know, things a real sane person says.
Anyway, six months later, he quit.
Through the magic that is the Internet (relax, we're Facebook friends, I'm not totally psychotic), I found out he had a new job at a bar in Brooklyn. And, while I truly believe I thrive as a person and live my best life whenever I am in Brooklyn, trying to get my friends to go there is an actual impossible task, especially after I dragged them to Jamie's death metal concert in Bushwick or made them come to a brewery opening in Sunset Park in the pouring rain because I had a crush on the bartender (wow, I have a type) and, I guess, also because of the time when ZG took me to a fancy wine event where I got pretty drunk and low-key fell in love with a gay monk.
So, after he moved jobs, I didn't see the ex-Barfly bartender for months. But, one Sunday evening in November of 2016, I convinced Serria to travel to Brooklyn because we were going to go see Mike Birbiglia, one of my favorite comedians and storytellers, practice his set. Getting to Brooklyn that night was even more difficult than usual, not only because out of all my friends, Serria is the most stubborn about wanting to stay in our section of Manhattan, but also because we were both severely hungover. I'd spent the day trying to recover by writing on my iPad at a coffee shop by my apartment, but it hadn't worked and I'd still had to walk over 50 blocks to meet her because I couldn't fathom being on the subway without vomiting.
As grown adults, it was not our best day.
When we (miraculously) made it to the Brooklyn bar where Mike was performing, neither of us were planning on drinking, but -- like the budding alcoholics we still potentially could turn out to be -- decided to each order just one Bud Light. And, after a single sip, suddenly everything was better. It was like the beers had literally restored us to life. Refusing to acknowledge that this was possibly due to our dependence on alcohol, Serria and I instead claimed the beers must be made up of magical properties and walked into the show feeling better than we had all day.
Those beers, combined with Mike's hilarious set, made us feel as if the night shouldn't quite end yet and, when it was over, we decided to go get just one more drink. A quick Google search showed us we were surprisingly right next to the ex-Barfly bartender's new bar and, so, with the confidence and determination that only a magical Bud Light can give you, Serria and I decided to show up and surprise him at work.
You know, like old times.
An aside: when writing this post, I have come to the realization I literally had one move when it came to dating in 2016 and this "just showing up" thing was it -- which was not great. Recently, I ran into the bartender I had thought I was dating who I actually was not and had not spoken to since the Snake Taylor Swift Halloween incident. (Pro tip: don't do the Whole 30 and then have your first alcoholic drink in over a month be the same night you're going out for Halloween. It. Will. Not. Go. Well.) While we were catching up, I finally, for the first time in two years, apologized for using his real name and writing about him on the Internet without telling him "but, like, not really, because my writing is really good." (It was the bare, bare minimum of an apology). In reality, I really should have been apologizing for showing up multiple times at his place of employment acting like the crazy ex-girlfriend I technically was not, but that's more embarrassing to verbalize in person and easier to just write about as a little blurb on the Internet, so, sorry for that, Jake.
Anyway, back to Brooklyn.
We walked into the ex-Barfly bartender's new bar and the look on his face when he saw us was a mix of happiness, surprise, massive confusion and maybe a tiny, slight bit of dread. (Between the excessive amount of shots ZG and Serria usually took while we were there in combination with all the ones I pretended to take while actually throwing them on the floor, we were notoriously not the easiest Barfly regulars he'd ever served). Still, the bar was mostly empty, so he stopped work to chat for awhile, the three of us catching up on the months since we'd all last seen each other.
Serria and I didn't live together quite yet when this happened because, as she likes to remind constantly, if we had, she never would have let the following events occur. But, around 10:30, she decided she was ready to go home because, again, it was a Sunday night. I would have gone with her, but I'd just gotten another drink and, like the night I broke my promise to ZG all those months before, I'm not one to leave an alcohol behind. Back in our Barfly days, me staying at the bar later than everyone else happened a lot and it wasn't a problem because once I'd ran out of listing all the reasons why the bartender should date me or drank the allotted number of vodka tonics he'd give me in a single night (whichever came first), I'd just hop in a close and affordable $7 cab back home. Since the whole night already felt like old times, I figured I would do the same thing, completely and inconveniently forgetting I was in Brooklyn, not at Barfly.
To her credit, Serria actively tried to get me to leave, but I adamantly refused and, after she reluctantly left, it really was just like old times. The bar was empty except for me and the bartender -- him, behind the bar, telling me stories and all the reasons why we still couldn't date. Me, in front of the bar, drinking an uncomfortable amount of vodka tonics and trying to convince him he was wrong.
A real love story for the ages.
Because I used to spend what some would classify as "too much" time after hours at bars, I'd become familiar with the timing of people who came through. While there was a lag time where I'd be the only patron in the vicinity, there'd also be a time right before closing where a new wave of people would show up. Usually, these people are just getting out of work from other careers that keep them up late at night -- once, during a marathon Sunday Barfly night, Jake closed his bar and walked into Barfly at 3 a.m., where I genuinely fell off my stool in shock at seeing him at what I considered MY bar -- and, this night I found myself in Brooklyn followed a similar pattern. After a few hours of us being alone, the ex-Barfly bartender and I were joined by two other people coming out of work shortly before the bar was closing.
Nothing makes good conversation like being the only people left at the bar and, when these other guys joined us, it was no different. As the ex-Barfly bartender finished closing up, the new men and I chatted about our respective evenings over a final drink of the night... or, should I say, morning. Because, when I finished that drink and looked at my phone for the first time, I saw it was 5 a.m. and it finally hit me how far away I was from my UES home.
I feel like I need to preface the rest of this story by once again saying it happened in 2016 and I've never written about it before in fear that my mother would read it and almost immediately drive to New York City to pluck me out of adulthood and ground me. (To be honest, I'm still not 100% sure she won't do that, despite it being well over a year later). And, whenever I tell this story now, I always tell people I realize I should have taken a car home, no matter how long it would take or how expensive it would be. But, at the time, all I was thinking about is how it was 5 a.m. and I was in Brooklyn and how sleepy I was and how I had to be at work in less than four hours.
So, as I was walking out of the bar with the three guys -- two of whom I had literally just met -- I asked if I could spend the night on one of their couches. In all honesty, I genuinely thought the ex-Barfly bartender would let me stay at his place, but he did not offer and instead, I plodded along home with Joe, someone who, again, had been a literal stranger an hour before, but lived nearby. And, upon arriving at Joe's place of residence, I walked to his couch and passed out immediately in his living room.
I know.
Two-and-a-half-hours later, my alarm went off and I woke up to realize I was sharing the couch with an extremely large dog I had never seen before. That's when I low-key started to panic about my situation and realize how insanely lucky I was that I hadn't been either assaulted or dismembered because of my irrationally dumb decisions. I could hear Joe snoring from his room and, as I had no real interest in waking up a stranger, quickly grabbed my coat, pet the dog I had been cuddling with and tried to open the front door.
It did not open.
In my hand, the knob just kept turning and turning, over and over, but not actually doing the function it was supposed to, which was to let me out of this nightmare situation I'd put myself in. Weighing my options of how I would get out of this apartment while the feeling of panic rapidly rose up my throat, I truly considered climbing down the fire escape, but as I made a move for the window, the dog I'd woken up with made a sound. I looked at the dog, the dog looked at me and, in that moment, it felt like we both realized I was still probably a little too drunk to successfully climb out a third-story window at 7:30 a.m. (I came to this conclusion mostly because I was taking advice from a dog).
So, sighing, the two of us made a move into Joe's room where, very nicely, I poked his sleeping form on the shoulder.
"Ummm, hi," I said when he finally awoke, jarred and confused at me standing above him, latched onto his dog for emotional support. "I'm the girl who slept on your couch last night and, like, thank you very much for that and also for not killing me, but I can't open the door to leave."
Joe, clearly thinking I was an idiot, told me to just turn the knob and rolled over to go back to sleep.
Tapping him on the shoulder again, I told him I'd been trying that for the past ten minutes and, really, it wasn't working. Groaning and now very clearly thinking I was an idiot, Joe got up, opened the door without a problem and (finally!) released me into the streets of Brooklyn.
Humiliated, hungover and exhausted, I took the train to work and tried to make myself feel better about my embarrassment by listing positives about my situation. I thought about how 1. pleased Serria would be that it would be a long, long time before I'd want to go back to this section of Brooklyn and that 2. New York City is so big that I would probably never have to see or speak to Joe about this ever again and finally, how 3. someday, this would make a really great story for me to write about on my iPad when I was hungover in a coffee shop, a positive that quickly turned into a negative when I realized I'd left my iPad on the floor at Joe's place.
Seeing as I'd now have to figure out how to see Joe again as well as trek back to Brooklyn to retrieve my stuff, my list of positives were dwindling fast, but I sucked up the remainder of my dignity -- which was not at an all-time or even average high at this point -- and contacted the ex-Barfly bartender, who had rapidly lost all his appeal after letting me sleep on a stranger's couch, to see if he could track down Joe's number.
Alongside with housing me for an evening as well as not killing me, it turns out Joe is a really nice guy. I think when he'd let me out that morning, we'd both assumed we would never see each other again, but when I cold contacted him with a "Ummm hi, again, it's me, the girl who slept on your couch and couldn't open your door and, also, left her expensive electronic device on your floor," he replied right away.
"I know you live far away from Brooklyn," he wrote back. "To make it easier for you, I'll be at a bar in East Village on Thursday night, so you can meet me there and I'll bring your iPad then."
Joe was really turning out to be the true MVP.
Because he'd shown up at the Brooklyn bar so late the night we'd met, I assumed he too was a bartender since, generally, the only people left that late at the bar on Sundays were people in the service industry and, well, me. I'd thought the address he'd given me to meet him at that Thursday night was where he worked, so I was confused when I showed up to the dive bar in East Village and didn't see him serving drinks, but instead, in the corner, surrounded by friends.
"Jen!," he waved me over, far more enthusiastically than I would have thought possible, considering the premise of our entire relationship spanned a grand total of three hours. I walked over, still trying to read the vibe of the situation and failing miserably. After a few minutes of small talk, Joe got up, presumably to go grab my iPad while I stayed put, chatting quietly with his friends.
"So, have long have you known Joe?," one of them asked me, innocently enough. As I started to try to figure out how to reply, Joe came back into the circle, handing me my iPad, and a look of realization glazed over his friend's eyes.
"OH MY GOD," he cut me off mid-stammer, loudly enough for everyone to hear. "YOU'RE THE STRANGER WHO PASSED OUT ON HIS COUCH SUNDAY NIGHT."
Mute, I nodded my head in both agreement and shame as what felt like the whole bar turned to look at me. I was confident my embarrassment could not be matched, but I was proven wrong when his friend uttered the next statement.
"Well," he said not unkindly, but finally giving clarity to the situation at hand. "Even though you just met, it's really nice of you to have shown up here...
...at his birthday party."
Almost exactly one year later, my brother Jonny came to visit me from California and the two of us went to Barfly. Waiting for ZG to join us, we ceremoniously ordered a pitcher of Bud Light and Jonny, who'd previously met the Barfly bartender back before he'd quit, asked how he was doing.
"It's a long story I'm trying to write about," I told him, launching into everything that happened, starting with Serria and I sipping Bud Light in Brooklyn and ending with Joe's humiliating birthday party exchange and the fact I hadn't spoken to either him or the ex-Barfly bartender since the night I'd been reunited with my iPad. I told him I was hesitant to start writing, not because I didn't think it was a blog-worthy story, but because I was pretty sure our parents reactions wouldn't be positive. (My parents, bless them, have always been nothing but supportive with everything I've ever written, even with the pieces containing shockingly detailed information about sex and eating disorders and crying over a boy who almost exclusively wore camo cargo shorts, but somehow, it felt like they were going to have a little bit harder of a time accepting I'd put myself in danger by passing out on a literal stranger's couch than when I wrote about Zach and I drinking two bottles of wine each and blackout making a break-up playlist).
Judging by how wide Jonny's eyes got during parts of my retelling, I was not wrong.
"I think you can write it," he told me. "But, you'll have to make it clear that it was a long time ago and you'd never do that again and you've learned your lesson."
Which, I have. After leaving his birthday party that night, I did my best to change some of my more self-destructive behaviors, knowing if I ever put myself in a situation like that again, it'd be rare for me to get lucky enough to have a stranger as good-hearted as Joe be the one to take me home. Now, when I'm awake at 5 a.m. during the week, it's not because I'm leaving the bar -- it's because I'm leaving my apartment to go to an early morning yoga class. I don't leave my number for bartenders at the bottom of my receipt anymore, nor do I actively or aggressively try to date them. It might be boring that I like to be in bed early, but I like that it's my bed, not a strange man's couch and when Serria says she's ready to leave a bar to go home, I pull together all my strength not to stay for just one more beer alone.
And, of course, you can no longer find me at Barfly three nights a week, drinking vodka tonics like they have the same nutritional value as a full evening meal. While I still love that place dearly, I wouldn't be able to properly call myself a regular there anymore. Instead, I'm there far less frequently, only showing up when people familiar with my blog or Zach's tweets or Serria's Snapchat are visiting or when we're already out and a little drunk, feeling uncomfortably nostalgic or, because some things will probably never change, when Zach and I really, really need to pre-game a date.