We were at The Gates of Hell, me and Marco and Ivan, and it had been raining hard since the early afternoon. Technically the bar was at the southern-most point of Sunset Park, but spiritually, it was the beginning of Bay Ridge. Old Brooklyn Irish types, retired cops and firefighters sitting beneath flags of the counties and provinces and Guinness posters. At that time of night there were a few neighbourhood drinkers, a group of roofers who knew they wouldn’t have to work tomorrow, and us. It was a Wednesday night, I think.
Ivan, a trader, had missed out on a big bonus and wanted to tell us how it was bullshit and not his fault over six or seven pints in a place where he’d never run into anyone he knew, Marco’s husband was on business in Orlando and I was on deadline. We’d all had a tiny bit of ketamine from Marco’s wallet and we were playing pool with the roofers, who were doing bumps of coke directly at the table, confident that turning their broad backs to the bar was enough to escape scrutiny.
It was Marco and Ivan’s turn on the table so I went outside to smoke a couple of cigarettes and look at my phone, taking cover from the rain in what was left of the shed the bar had put up at the start of the pandemic. The back-to-back cigarettes were making me feel higher than I wanted, so I went back inside to get a round. And a water. The bartender was gone, and so was Marco.
I leaned against the bar, resisting the urge to get my phone out again. After waiting some more, I sat down on a stool. There was a woman to my right, wearing thick-rimmed arty glasses and drinking a glass of white wine, scrolling through Facebook.
Has he gone to change the keg, I asked, as if she were in charge. She gave me a knowing look. He’s gone out the back, she said. There’s a whole bunch of rooms out the back.
I’d been to this bar before, it wasn’t far from my apartment, and it’s true you could sense there were unseen rooms at this bar, rooms that were open to some but not others.
I’m Max, I said. I like your glasses.
I like your accent, she said. I’m not going to try and guess where it’s from, though.
I smiled, and we fell silent. The crack of cue against ball rang out from the back of the bar. The bartender’s absence yawned between us.
