vaseIt was by far my all-time-worst bartending experience, and it started with a simple but nasty prank among friends.

Who knows how long everyone had been picking on the guy they called “Mountain.” His friends had been teasing him at least since high school, when he didn’t try out for the football team even though he was a big, strapping kid. He was a mellow sort, not interested in sports, so they began calling him “Mountain” to bust his chops.

Now they had all graduated–some of them taking jobs in their hometown of Cortland, NY–and after work they’d hang out at the bar I was running on Main Street, a place called The Mug. At the bar they continued to constantly taunt “Mountain,” although it was usually in a light-hearted, among-friends way.

One afternoon, Mountain happened to mention that he’d dropped off a new couch for the parents of another guy sitting at the bar. Mountain was employed by a local furniture moving company. “You were at my dad’s house?” Pat O’Neally JR. asked.

Mountain probably shouldn’t have said anything–because Pat came up with a plan to bust his balls. At the pay phone, he called Mountain’s boss, pretending to be Pat O’Neally SR. “Yes, that’s right,” Pat JR. said over the phone, “When they dropped off the couch, I think they stole an expensive, imported vase. There was a big guy with them . . . I think his name was “Mormon” or “Mountain” . . . something like that. Yes, thank you for looking into it”

“You’re in big trouble now, Mountain!” one of the group laughed as Pat O’Neally JR. came back to the bar. Everyone was laughing, and Mountain just sat there embarrassed. They had called his boss.

I probably should have done something, maybe stopped Pat JR. earlier, or intervened now as they continued to rag on Mountain. Customers expect the bartender to keep things under control. With everyone laughing and cheering, Mountain was devastated, his face beet-red. He got up and stormed out.

Half an hour later, Mountain returned. He burst through the front door and without saying a word to anyone, headed straight to the men‘s room. He slammed the bathroom door shut behind him. A second or two later, we heard . . . “BAM! . . . BAM!” . . . it sounded like two, loud gunshots!

“Oh, Christ!” I thought. “He was so upset, he came come back to kill himself in the men’s room!”

I stood behind the bar feeling sort of paralyzed, a little sick to my stomach. One of the Tobin brothers was now trying to push into the bathroom, but someone was blocking the door from the other side, pushing back against it.

“It must have only been firecrackers,” I told myself now, watching Ken Tobin still trying to force his way inside. After all, there had been two loud bangs–that didn’t make sense. No, it must have been firecrackers, or something.

Now the bathroom door finally opened, and Mountain stepped out. He began walking past the scattered tables up toward the bar. “Mountain!” I yelled. “Mountain . . . get the fuck outa here!” I was pissed that he’d set off the firecrackers, pissed because he had me worried for a minute.

But Mountain just kept walking toward me. “Mountain, get the fuck out of here!!!” I yelled again.

Mountain was a lot bigger than I was, but I’d been a Phys. Ed. Major in college and a collegiate wrestler, and now I was studying karate with Masataka Muramatsu in the dojo on the second floor above us. Besides, all my frat buddies–like all-American football player Jim “Cowboy” Van Wormer, and all-American lacrosse player Paul Wehrum–they were the other bartenders and doormen at The Mug. Nobody messed around in our bar. Mountain should have been listening to what I said. Why wasn’t he stopping?

He kept coming toward me. The people on either side seemed to lean back and shy away as he passed through the crowd.

Then I noticed his hand, down by his side–he had a gun in that hand! It looked like a small 38. Caliber pistol, a “detective’s special.”

By now everyone else saw the gun, too, and the place became suddenly silent. As Mountain got to the bar, everything seemed to slow down. No one was moving. Everything was frozen.

detective specialMountain lifted the gun, cocked the hammer back, reached over the bar and put the barrel to my forehead. I was staring down the barrel of a gun, with its hammer cocked.

The first thoughts running through my mind were all the reasons I didn’t want to die. There was a cute coed from Alpha Sig who had been at the bar last week–I had a hunch she was interested in me. Now I’d never have the chance to be with her?

I thought of all my plans, what I hoped to do with my life . . . moving to Boston, writing a book. I thought about the whole world, this earth and our solar system, and the entire universe. The way our sensory system works that entire universe was in my brain–and now a bullet traveling at some ridiculous speed was going to blast everything in that universe away?

“I’m not ready to die,” I kept thinking. For some reason I wasn’t panicked; it was more like a matter-of-fact observation. “I don’t want it to end this way.” Then I began to pull my thoughts under control. “Stop wasting time,” I told myself, “concentrate on the current situation.”

We had practiced a drill in the karate school upstairs. It was designed for exactly this type of emergency–someone holding a knife or a gun to your face. It was a simple, lighting-fast move and it had worked every time, at least in class. Should I try that move now? I was worried I might not be able to do it successfully. What if Mountain was just trying to scare me, trying to save some face after being humiliated earlier? What if I attempted the move and the gun went off accidentally? I might be shot and killed, whereas if I hadn’t done anything I would still be alive.

I went back and forth debating these options, for what seemed like such a long, long time. Then I started to think I should at least try something. I shouldn’t just stand here and be shot without putting up a fight.

Suddenly all the sound came back, and everything began racing fast again as I threw the move without knowing I’d even made a decision.

It worked, just like in practice. With a quick slap of my hand, I pushed the gun aside, coming back at the same time with the other fist to punch Mountain in the face. The gun clattered on the floor behind the bar, and Mountain fell down, disappearing on the other side.

The Tobin brothers picked Mountain up and dragged him out. I called the police, then called the owner of The Mug. “God Damn it!” Tony, the owner, said over the phone. “I don’t want any trouble in that bar!” Tony owned three bars in town, and a regional pinball distributorship.

“Tell them not to press charges,” Tony told me. “Just let it slide. I’ll talk with the police chief. You know I’m responsible for anything that happens down there?”

Back behind the bar everyone was asking how I was–had I felt scared? Where did I learn that move? The funny thing was . . . at the time, I really hadn’t felt scared. Right now I was struggling to act normally, with my insides rattling from the top of my head down to my feet–but at the time it was more just pure thought, no feelings at all.

I started to tell the regulars everything I had been considering, how long I’d thought about why I didn’t want to die, and what options I’d mulled over–but they were looking at me funny. They all insisted that as soon as Mountain raised the gun to my forehead I had slapped it away immediately, and punched him. They insisted the whole thing took place in a split second. “It happened so fast I didn’t have time to put my beer down,” one of them said, still looking at me strangely.

But in my mind, it had been a long, long time as I stood looking at the gun in my face, thinking about so much with everything frozen.

handcuffs“You know he’s basically a good kid,” a detective was saying about Mountain the next day over the phone. A policeman on foot had picked up the gun a few minutes after the incident, and now one of the detectives was calling the bar the next afternoon from the station.

“I’d hate to see him get in serious trouble because of one stupid mistake,” the detective continued, “he was only trying to scare people.” I knew the detective wanted to steer me away from pressing charges; he didn’t have to worry. Tony had already told me not to do anything, and besides I didn’t want Mountain to come back some day and this time really shoot me. Mountain was now barred from The Mug and that was enough. Actually, I felt bad for him–that he wouldn‘t be able to come in here anymore. It was something that just got out of hand.

“From now on be more careful what you let happen in that bar,” the detective was saying. “You’re supposed to be in control there . . . they never should never have done that to Mountain in the first place.”

The Mug was my first bartending experience, and I was still learning on the job . . . but yeah, the detective was right about all of that.

Posted in Life on a Cocktail Napkin | Leave a comment


3d kids jump and laugh in a partyStarting in September 2010, we posted weekly at Life on a Cocktail Napkin for three years–then this past year there were a few missed weeks, and a few more, until lately it’s only been once a month. For a good reason, though. As some of you know I’ve been trying to finish a book . . . and it’s done! Yup, finally. Hurray.

But now it’s the last day of the month to post, and I need a little more time. Coming this Friday is the story of my worst (by far) bartending experience. I was working in a joint called The Mug when a customer walked up, pulled out a gun, cocked the hammer back and reached over the bar to put the barrel of the gun to my forehead.

That’s coming Friday. For now, I thought you might enjoy one of the funniest videos I’ve seen in a while. The guy in this vid has a great sense of humor–his stuff is tight and on point throughout, but it’s delivered casually and the musical element makes it go down easily. So if you want a biting, anti-Justin-Bieber lesson on how simple it is “to create a hit pop song with no talent,” click on the image below. And we’ll see you Friday for a new post.


Posted in Life on a Cocktail Napkin | Leave a comment


drama_facesWhen I first moved to Boston, I worked at The Sunflower Café in Harvard Square and it was a trip. Aside from the expected swarms of students, our crowd included artists and musicians, an occasional Harvard professor, guys just looking for hot chicks, and a collection of regulars who were often strange, but always entertaining–characters such as Disappearing Sam and Howie.

Back then Harvard Square was like a permanent circus, and the Sunflower Café was one of the feature attractions.

Sitting at the bar in The Sunflower one night, I met a Boston playwright. I’d had the night off and was pretty-well buzzed when this attractive woman with long, curly brown hair sat down on the barstool next to me. We started talking. She told me she’d been an actress off and on, but over the last several years had been mostly writing. One of her plays had won a prestigious Boston award.

It was an interesting Harvard Square conversation, perhaps more intellectual than a typical bar chat, but she was also quite foxy with a free-spirited style and daring eyes. So I bought her a drink. We continued talking and after a while I bought her another drink. Then I asked her back to my place.

As I said, I was feeling no pain–we were both in our late twenties, hitting it off really well, and after all this was Harvard Square. I tried to be smooth about it. I told her that I’d been here quite a while and it was probably time for me to head home. “Want to join me?” I asked.

She laughed, throwing her head back. “Let me see,” she said smiling. “We’ve had a nice talk . . . we seem to click . . . so now you think we should go home together and fuck?”

“Don’t you think you’re pushing it a bit?” she asked still smiling.

OK, so she put me in my place. But she’d done it in a playful manner–and I was impressed she’d been so refreshingly direct. “Go home and fuck?” I thought that gave me an opening to come back just as directly.

“Well,” I continued, “why don’t at least you give me your phone number, then?”

“We should go out this week,” I said. “We can have dinner someplace nice, or enjoy a movie at the cinema, have a late drink in the square . . . and then go home and fuck.” For some reason that sounded like a good response at the time.

She laughed again. She took it in good humor, not offended at all. “We’ll have to see about that last part,” she said, scribbling on a cocktail napkin, “but here’s my number.” And she handed me the folded paper.

That was how our relationship began and that’s how it would continue for as long as it lasted. Suzanne had this light-hearted, laughing, direct approach to everything. She dressed more conservatively than the girls I usually dated–even though the same age, she was more of an adult. She was wicked smart, an author and a critic, but once in bed she was unstoppable. There was fantastic contrast between her serious/calm/professional demeanor and what she’d do once naked and getting down to it.

Once I woke up in the middle of the night at her place. I couldn’t fall back to sleep so I just lay beside her, thinking. She stirred awake too, and since I was clearly going over something in my mind, we began talking about a book I’d been reading. After a few minutes she said, “I’m always going to remember you as the man who woke me to talk about Nietzsche.”

For a split second I felt a bit of intellectual pride . . . then I realized she was actually pointing to what I hadn’t woken her up to do. I smartened up and when we were finished, I slept like a baby.

We continued to see each other casually. I might give her a call, or she’d stop at the bar to say hello, and we’d hook up that week but maybe not the next. After quite a few months of this, I was headed back to my apartment one night following many after-hours drinks with the rest of The Sunflower staff. When I got to my building’s front door, I realized I didn’t have my key with me. I’d thrown on a new pair of jeans rushing out to get to work on time, and had forgotten to take it from the old pants.

By now it was 4:00 a.m., and I was a somewhat inebriated bartender locked out of his own apartment. I decided to use the fire escape to go in through my second-story window. I had to stand on top of a garbage can I’d hauled over in order to jump up and grab the last rung of the raised metal bars. I swung there for a minute trying to pull myself up, and then had difficulty working up through the ancient iron grating.

On the grated landing outside my apartment, I remembered that the window was the roll-out type that opened on the side, not one where I could just slide up the bottom pane. I tried to pry it open but the window wouldn’t budge. What was I going to do now? Should I just break the window to get inside? Instead I headed back down the fire escape.

I was hanging by both hands from the bottom rung again, just about to drop to the ground when these sharp flashing lights began blinding me. “Freeze!” some deep male voice boomed, “Don’t move!”

One of my neighbors must have heard someone trying to break in and called the police.

Once I hit the ground, the two cops were all over me, each with one hand on their now holstered guns. It was a simple enough explanation once I showed them my driver’s license with this same address listed below my name.

“Sorry to cause any trouble,” I told them, “I think I’ll stay at a friend’s house tonight.”

When I got to Suzanne’s apartment, it took quite a while for her to answer the buzzer. She was in her bathrobe, hair all rumpled, only half-awake after being disturbed at this hour. She put one hand to her head as she listened to my explanation. “Well,” she said sleepily after a minute, “I guess you can crash here tonight.”

“But you’ll have to sleep on the couch,” she said. Then she glanced toward her closed bedroom door. Damn, that’s when it hit me. What a dope I was. I’d never stop to consider she might have company.

Copy of Harvard Square Clock

The antique clock in Harvard Square watches everything.

Then the bedroom door opened and someone was stepping out into the living room with us . . . it was a twenty-year-old blond woman. Bathrobe tied loosely at her waist, she was squinting around the room with rudely-awakened eyes, her hair flattened on one side. She looked first at Suzanne, then at me.

I felt like such a jerk. The next morning when they got up I pretended to still be asleep, rolled over facing into the couch’s back. I stayed that way until they were in the kitchen fixing breakfast, and I was still lying with my back toward the living room as I heard them leave and lock the door.

Suzanne returned to her apartment during a break from the theater where she worked. She wanted to talk.

“You got me in a little trouble last night,” she said. “Things are getting serious with this woman . . . and I really hadn’t told her anything about you.”

“She called me a ‘humiliated heterosexual,’” Suzanne laughed. “I told her we were just friends, but I don’t think she bought it.”

“Anyway,” Suzanne continued, “I think we’d better cool it, at least for the time being. She and I are becoming more involved now.”

So after that, Suzanne and I were just friends. At first we’d get together for dinner or drinks every week or so, then it became once a month, and after a while over the years I just lost touch with her. But I still remember leaving her apartment that afternoon, after having disturbed her in the middle of the night. I remember walking down toward The Sunflower Café, thinking, “Yeah, Harvard Square can sure be a trip.”

Posted in Life on a Cocktail Napkin | 2 Comments


bdsm_whipThis continues from a story from The Lark Tavern. One thing Ill always remember about Albany, NY–I might never have met my girlfriend, Kristin, if the bartender from G. J.’s hadnt been shot. It was a crazy time and a wild relationship. For background, see Part I and Part II.

“Awww, you spank me like a little boy would!” Kristin laughed. She had started it. We’d been laying naked on the mattress on my living floor, resting, when out of the blue she smacked my ass with her open hand. Then she laughed and did it again, so I rolled her over and returned the gesture. It had been another two nights spent with Kristin, and she’d been acting frisky the whole time. Apparently this had been building up.

“Big strong man,” she kept laughing now, “that’s as hard as you can hit?”

So I smacked her butt again, this time harder. And again, and again, until the bare skin on her bottom was starting to redden, but she didn’t protest. She just lay on her stomach and if anything she seemed to relax. If she’d been a kitten, she would have been purring.

“I like it when you’re aggressive,” she said later, after we’d finished screwing again. We had ended up doing just about everything this time. The spanking seemed to have set something loose in her.

“Some night you should tie me up and blindfold me,” she said now. “Then you can do whatever you want with me.”

Once again, I was playing catch-up with Kristin. I had noticed her on one of my first days in Albany–she’d been walking along the street by the tennis courts, wearing short shorts and a Minnie Mouse T-shirt. She was tall and slim, and she had the ease of a model, gliding down the sidewalk with a runway stride. Her blond hair bounced around her face. I watched her pass by and wondered, “What would it take to have a girlfriend like that?”

I’d see her time and time again in the Washington Park area, but never had the courage to say anything to her, not even hello. Then came the night when G. J.’s was closed because a bartender got shot, so I went to another bar . . . and out of nowhere Kristin would sit on an empty stool next to me. Everything about us–our meeting, and the way we fell into seeing each other more often–everything about our relationship was a little unexpected and mysterious.

Now Kristin surprised me again. She wanted me to be more aggressive? She wanted to be tied up? I started to think about where I could buy the stuff to do that. There was a small D/s boutique on Western Ave, just down the street from The Outside Inn. It was a dark, secretive little shop, and once inside I realized I had no idea what I was doing.

There were bondage masks, whips and chains, thigh-high vinyl lady’s boots, and fancy black leather corsets. “Can I help you?” the heavily-painted girl behind the counter asked. Despite the adult make-up, she looked as though she might be just out of high school.

She was a young girl, maybe eighteen-years-old, but a lot wiser and more experienced than I was in this, and she knew it. Beneath the glass top, the counter displayed an assortment of dildos–some of them huge, with beads, and studs, and extensions protruding in all directions.

The girl stood there smiling. “Just looking,” I told her, like an embarrassed rookie. I left the shop without buying anything, or asking any questions. I figured I might be able to find what I needed at a traditional department store.

scarfAt Flah’s, I looked through the racks of women’s scarves, and picked out a colorful one I thought might work as a blindfold. Then I bought some fancy, sort of designer cord that was probably meant for interior decorating. Instead of picking up something a little dark and sexy, I went back to my basement apartment with a bagful of vanilla stuff. I had no idea what I was doing–and when it came time to put everything to use, things got even worse.

That night I tied the scarf over Kristin’s eyes. I wrapped her wrists loosely with the designer cord, and secured the end of the cord to one of the couch’s short legs. But as we began screwing, the rocking and the movement made the scarf slip off her eyes. She kept turning her head to the side, trying to nudge the scarf back in place with her shoulder.

I reached down and pulled the scarf back up, then a few minutes later I had to do it again. All the while we kept going, but now the cord on her wrists had loosened to the point where her hands were essentially free. She still held her arms over her head, but she was doing it on her own.

At one point her legs were wrapped around my waist, then her ankles were up by my neck, so I pushed on the back of her thighs until she was doubled-up–and I continued to go at it. But the scarf had slipped down to a weird angle on her face again, and she was lying there as we screwed, holding her arms stretched out, with one closed eye exposed from the blindfold, pretending she was helpless.

We kept trashing away, but it was one of my more embarrassing first efforts at something new. Kristin was kind enough not to say anything.

Finally she pulled both her hands completely free, rolled over, and I spanked her ass as I fucked her from behind. “Spank my ass!” she hissed. “Slap my ass!

Laying there afterward, Kristin still hadn’t said a word about the vanilla scarf, or the poor attempt at bondage. It was going to take a while to get a handle on all this, but I was beginning to see why she liked it. The freedom to just take her was stimulating for both of us.

Everything was working out, even if only in fits and starts. Kristin had become my steady girlfriend. “And why not?” I remember thinking at the time. After all, I was a bartender and she was a hot blonde. What else was there to consider?

Posted in Life on a Cocktail Napkin | 2 Comments


Old Administration building at SUNY Cortland (Cortland State, NY)

I showed a lot of promise as a college freshman. With the exception of a “B-” in a mandatory swimming course, I had straight “A’s.” My grade-point average was 3.95 out of a possible 4.0 . . . I finishing second in a school-wide speaking contest, wrestled on SUNY Cortland’s freshman team, and was nominated as one of the college’s outstanding freshman.

So how is it that with all this promise–I ended up changing my major three times, dropping out of school twice, and accumulating some 128 certified credit hours, without ever graduating?

Looking back, I have to blame my freshman roommate, Kyle Richenock.

OK, maybe some small, small responsibly might be my own, but mostly it was Kyle’s fault.

I remember when I first stepped into the room we would share at our freshman dorm, Hendrick’s Hall. Kyle had already moved in and he was lying with his feet on his bed, his hands behind his head, watching me. He was sizing up his new roommate.

I knew I wasn’t a typical freshman. I had worked for a year after high school graduation. I met a girl and fell in love the summer after high school; she was my first real girlfriend, and it was my first sex.

I fell head over heels for her. When we went together to the New York State Fair, which is held in Syracuse NY, we spent most of our time in the model home displays, looking at living room arrangements and talking about the day we’d settle down and raise a family.

So went I finally did go to college, my motivation was different than all these stoned-out dudes. I remember an all-dorm meeting with the Senior Resident, and he was asking if anyone had any questions. A guy in the back shouted out, “Hey, since we can’t have girls in our rooms, where does one go to get laid?”

See what I mean? That thought had never crossed my mind. The only thing I was worried about was how to make it to the weekends, when I could drive back to Syracuse and see my girl.

In the dorm room that first day, Kyle was still watching me as I began to unpack my stuff. The first thing I did was take out the 8” x 10” framed photo of my girlfriend; I set it on top of the dresser. Then I took out her high school tassel and draped it over one corner of the picture. My high school tassel was draped over the other corner.

Copy of figurineI took out a few knickknacks and figurines that my girlfriend had given me–a little plastic football player with a black eye, two little bears cuddling, that type of thing. I put them around the picture.

As I worked, I’d step back now and then to look at the dresser top, and take it all in.

“Oh, Jesus,” Kyle said, his hands still behind his head. “You’ve created a shrine.”

Like I said, I wasn’t a typical college freshman.

I called my girlfriend that night, and in fact I called her every single night from Hendrick’s Hall. And each night after we talked, she’d write me a letter so that every single day that freshman year, I got a letter from her. I mailed one to her every day, too.

The weeks went by, and while all the other freshman males were downtown drinking in the college bars, I stayed in my room and studied. I wanted to graduate and be a good provider. (Now you know the truth about my high grades–I cheated, by actually studying.)

I had talked the college administrators into letting me bring a car on campus, something that most freshman back then couldn’t do. I might have told them that I had a sick grandmother who I had to visit. There was no shame in making sure my girlfriend and I at least had sex on weekends. I drove the thirty minutes back to Syracuse every Friday night, until wrestling season started.

While wrestling I still maintained a focused lifestyle, resisting the efforts of Kyle and his friends to get me downtown, where the bars were. Kyle had a lot of friends. He was a big man on campus. He played football and lacrosse for the Cortland freshman teams; he was a big, smart guy with a great sense of humor.

And he had this ridiculously infectious laugh. When Kyle laughed, everyone within hearing distance laughed along with him. He could be telling you that your mom just got run over by a truck, and if he laughed as he said it, you’d laugh, too.

Kyle like to hit on all the cute coeds. Somehow, even though he was a freshman, he ended up on the grill at an all-school barbeque. Kyle was flipping hamburgers when this stunning coed, Barbara Stilton, walked up. She was Playmate gorgeous, with the body of a gymnast. She had blond, pixie-cut hair, and she wore this incredibly sexy frosted lipstick.

Kyle started to chat her up, leaning forward. He kept smiling and laughing, and holding her attention. Then the sizzling smoke started to rise up between his fingers. He had leaned forward on the grill, with his palms down as he entertained her–and now he yelled and lifted his red palms up–but he was laughing. And of course, everyone laughed with along him.

Copy of cortland footballOne of Kyle’s best buddies was a guy named Dominick DeNapoli. Dominick was a lineman on Cortland’s freshman football team. He was a big Italian kid from a tough section of Binghamton NY, who despite his size was a math major, obsessed with thinking out everything logically. His favorite character on Star Trek was Spock.

One day Dominick was called in to talk with the college administration. (An irritating young freshman on the third floor might have been intimidated, lifted in the air, when he gave Dominick some lip.) Now someone in the Dean’s office was going to straighten Dominick out, in an intellectual, administrative way.

“Where do you see yourself in fours years,“ the college official intoned. “What do you see yourself doing?”

“I’m not sure, Dominick responded, “but whatever I’m doing . . . I want to be boss!”

His words alone don’t really describe his whole answer. As he spoke, Dominic had put his hands on the end of the chair’s arms, and now he pushed his body back into the chair–and the force of it broke something in the chair. The legs of the chair separated and Dominick had to jump up quickly to avoid falling to the floor with the clattering chair parts.

“What the Christ! Dominick shouted, now standing tall and close to the administrator’s desk. “What the Christ!”

The administrator said they could talk another time.

These were the guys who kept trying to get me down to the bars to raise hell with them. They were always having a blast. They had all these friends. Me . . . after months at the college and in the dorm, spending all my spare time studying . . . I hardly knew anyone. “This is my roommate,” Kyle would introduce me, and that’s how I was known. Now and then I’d hear some guy tell another kid, “Oh, that’s Kyle’s roommate.”

As soon as wrestling season ended, I began to weaken. “One beer,” Kyle kept saying. “One freaking beer isn’t going to kill you!”

You know how this goes . . . the first time, it was just one beer. And then it was a couple of beers, and gradually I began to learn what a wonderful new world it was, hanging out in the bars. I didn’t drink in high school; I was only interested in sports. Now this was amazing–the carnival atmosphere of the bars, the camaraderie, the cute coeds. There was a spirit of adventure. Compared with studying in the dorm, this was like being on the high seas.

To make a long story short . . . remember that scene with the dresser top “shrine” on the first day with Kyle as a roommate?  Well, here’s another, contrasting scene that happened after a year of rooming with Kyle. I remember most of the details . . .

Scene from The Tavern

Scene from The Tavern

I would finish my last spring final before Kyle finished his, so I told him I’d meet him at a joint called “The Tavern.” At this popular college bar, they were having an end-of-finals special–a pitcher of beer and a bucket of steamers for some ridiculously cheap price, maybe five dollars. Steamers and pitchers of beer, after a long freshman year. What could be more perfect?

I ordered another round.

I kept drinking and drinking, and by now I was pretty trashed. For some reason, when an old Bob Dylan song began playing on the jukebox, I got up and stood on the booth table. Balancing precariously, I was singing at the top of my lungs along with the jukebox: “Everybody must get stoned!

Now someone else stood up on their booth table too, and then another, until all of us were singing. Feeling that I was being out-escalated as everyone sang along –“Everybody must get stoned!”–for some reason, I decide to drop my pants. They were down by my ankles as we all sang out the lyrics. “Everybody must get stoned!”

I was singing on the table top, gyrating my hips, pants around my ankles.

The bouncer, named Jumbo, came out of nowhere. He picked me up and carried me in the air toward the door . . . and the next thing I knew I was sprawled in the gutter in front of The Tavern.

The Tavern, 139 Main Street, Cortland NY.

The Tavern, 139 Main Street, Cortland NY.

Lying in the gutter, my bare ass was cold, so I inched my pants back up most of the way, with a series of pulling-humping motions. Exhausted now I just lay there, unable to move.

There’s a famous quote from Oscar Wilde: “We are all in the gutter, but some of us are gazing at the stars.” Well, I wasn’t on my back looking up. I was face down in the gutter and perfectly content at the moment to stay that way. I listened to the voices of students, the opening of the door as they went into The Tavern.

At one point, I thought I heard a familiar voice, and then that unmistakable laugh, and everyone as always laughing along. They seemed to stop. I heard footsteps gathering not far away.

“Kyle, look at that guy!” I heard one of this group say. ‘Look at that guy in the gutter!”

“Oh Jesus,” I heard Kyle reply. “That’s my roommate.”

And then I heard The Tavern door open, and they went inside.

The next year when Kyle, Dominick, and I got an off-campus apartment, the madness didn’t stop. I ended up changing majors several times, dropping out of school twice, and after the second time–now totally enamored with the bar life–I became a bartender.

Kyle, I know you’re out there. Someday lift a pint for me . . . as you look back on your successful career in sports broadcasting, working as you do for that well-known network. And just remember, Kyle . . . you ruined my life. (Only kidding, of course. Great to talk with you the other day, buddy!)

Posted in Life on a Cocktail Napkin | Leave a comment