Ghosts of Manhattan: A Novel(15)

“Let’s get out, go for a drink somewhere.”

“Right now?”

“It’s only nine thirty. Someplace casual, just put some jeans on.”

Julia and I have never been one of those couples that has to do social things only with other couples. We like when it’s just the two of us. I prefer it. We sometimes go out to dinner and I look at other couples sitting in silence, staring at their soup with an unhappy expression, and then I look back at Julia and realize I have a pretty good thing. We have stories and laughter and then some silence that is in appreciation of everything else.

Sometimes we go out and get a little drunk together. Not college, puking drunk, but a few drinks. We’ve loved going to the Hog Pit for years, and we decide on that for tonight. It’s a bar that could be in west Texas. It’s got a sort of swinging saloon door, only really it’s just a rickety old door barely hanging on to the hinges. The front room has a long bar running along the left wall, lined with bar stools. The rest of the room is little tables and a jukebox with a good amount of country. A hallway in back passes by the bathrooms, then opens to another room with a pool table, foosball, and a few pinball machines.

Most places in Manhattan charge at least eight bucks for a beer. Here it’s two for a Pabst Blue Ribbon. We take two bar stools and order two beers. The bar is full of some younger kids out of college who don’t yet make enough money to go to nicer places, and some older folks who don’t make enough money either.

We take our first sips quietly. I know there is this evolving problem between me and Julia, and like most guys I’m frustrated that fixing it isn’t as simple as turning wrenches in the physical world. It’d be nice if I could make a few tweaks to the motor, maybe change a fan belt, then turn it back on, slap it on the side, and say, Yup, this baby’s running fine again. It won’t be so easy. We’re outgrowing the lifestyle my job has created and this tension is a deterrent to us growing in any other way, including having kids.

We’re noticing all the off things about the people around us, which is a fun game with Julia in a place like this. All the while I’m searching for my verbal quick fix tools like a klutz.

I should just engage her on it. She’s a trusted listener and she needs me to talk about it, but I’m waiting in front of it like a cold swimming pool, trying to work up the nerve to jump in. I start the jumping motion a few times, then step back and tell myself just jump in, once you’re in it’s fine.

“I’m going to go to the bathroom. I’ll be right back.”

“Okay.”

The bar is filling up and I weave through some people on the way to the men’s room and stand in front of the urinal staring at a 1980s poster of a blond bombshell in a Budweiser bikini and a hard hat while I come up with my game plan.

I walk back toward the bar stools and I see Julia raising her voice to a guy sitting on what used to be my stool. I come up behind them and hear her holler, “That is my husband’s seat. We’re still using it. Please move.”

The guy is ignoring her and trying to get the attention of the bartender to order a drink.

I put my hand on his shoulder and give enough of a squeeze to let him know that my hand isn’t going to move away. “Hey, buddy. You’re in my seat.”

I’ve learned in almost all cases you don’t have to fight. You just have to convince the other guy that you really will. Sometimes in a place like New York you run into a crazy person who really will too, and worse yet might have a knife or some other crap. But I’m pretty sure this kid isn’t that way. He’s just a little geek who’s had too many two-dollar beers already.

He spins around to me, keeping flush on the stool. “I don’t see your name on it.”

I slowly reach up and squeeze the hell out of his nose and hold on to it. “It’s written right under your ass. Stand up and I’ll show it to you.” I’ve got an excellent grip on his nose. I feel like I could pull it right off his face. I squeeze harder.

“Okay, okay.” His voice sounds like he just inhaled a helium balloon. Julia half laughs but I’m still trying to act like a tough guy.

I lead him by the nose to the side and off the stool, then let him go. He reaches for his nose to make sure it isn’t bleeding and walks away to a table.

I sit back down, half-turned to keep an eye on him. “I hope he doesn’t have a bunch of enormous friends back there playing pool.”

“My hero.” Julia clinks my bottle, takes a sip, and orders two more beers. I’m still watching after the guy and feeling less tough than I was a minute ago.

“Don’t worry. If there was going to be a fight, it would already have happened.”

“I guess.”

I turn back to the bar and look at Julia in time to see her eyes go over my shoulder and she says, “Uh-oh.”

I turn back around expecting to see muscles and a tank top and instead it’s an overtanned Italian-looking girl with huge black hair and crazy blue eye shadow. She has on what could be just a bra and leather or plastic pants that look impossible to get in or out of. The guy I removed by the nose is right behind her and looks like he’s trying to slow her down, but she gets right to us.

Her accent is just what I expect. Nasal and Staten Island. “Oh, big tough guy, tweaking noses. You loser. What kind of a creep even does that?”