Years ago (again, who knows how many) Lisa and I were hanging out at The Vortex on a Sunday afternoon–something we had never done before up to that time (that is: hanging out at The Vortex, not just “hanging out”)–and watching American Ninja Warrior, which we knew existed and knew what it was but had never before watched because it’s kinda like reality TV. That Sunday was our first drinking Sunday: those ones that were meant to avoid Monday. There’s always a first.
The sparse crowd (also again: am I remembering the sparseness/density of the crowd with any fidelity?) was unique to a Sunday. If you remember or had any experience slobbing it around your dorm’s TV room during any of your off-class times that coincided with random others’ off-class times, that was what it was. Where there was a nomadic shift change of students but a consistency of entertainment: Soap Operas! I really don’t think before college that I watched soap operas but it was almost a mandatory credit you had to take while there. This, I realize, is a dated experience but there is likely a camaraderie experienced by students today, mutatis mutandis, that is the same. There is no word for such a tribe. We form in shifting groups in shifting times but with the same intent, and there’s an unspoken understanding of mood. “I want to waste time and think of nothing.”
That ANW afternoon is odd in my memory because of its role as origin story to the realization that grown-ups can extend their irresponsibility to the-day-before-the-respite-ends. Maybe I just have internal rules that I marvel at at the realization that they are not universal constants. Maybe that’s what (minor) epiphanies are?
I yearn to get out but to not deal with people. Not to “socialize.” One evening when I went down to The Vortex to grab dinner for us and drink some beers before the goal was achieved, I took my Kindle loaded with essays from Arts & Letters Daily and sat end-of-the-bar with my face buried in ideas I-know-not-where. Adding to my codex of internal rules is the idea that I cannot read in public at a bar/restaurant/locale of social intent. I will. But I feel weird. So several seats away at the (non-Sunday so let’s say… 75% full?) bar was someone with a book–hardback–of no less than 500 pages. Just reading. That was a revelation for me and I realize it shouldn’t have been. Nobody. Cares. Or if they do… <shrug>? We all have our hang-ups. Anyway, that 500+ page book imprinted itself on me as a license to do what you want at a bar and in public (ykwim). It mapped to my desire to be social/nonsocial. People struggle over eating out alone, so this is maybe similar.
November 2016. We all know what that means. Our (Lisa and my) ritual for several years had been to go to The Vortex for election night results. That year was no different and Artie, as per usual, was bartending. Great guy–I think a libertarian?–destined to be the coolest, most erudite and tattooed high school teacher you ever had. Not sure if that ever happened. Anyway, many people have that night imprinted on their now-scarred psyches and my night of imprint was there. When the final count happened–or at least was inevitable–I remember looking with an empty soul at Artie, and seeing his empty-eyed and silent response, and we all know how that felt.
I hate that I have that memory.