In New York City, a person knows where they stand. You know before you hop on the subway if a person is going to show up to a date. Then if they’re not showing, and if you’re just depressed enough, you go anyway. And maybe you have yourself a decent time.
The dating scene in New York City is more direct than in other places. Or, at least more direct than the only other place I was during the pandemic: Los Angeles. Out there, dating goes by many names: the great hunt, strip Yahtzee, the game of emotional complexity and neglect, the color coated spin-the-wheel dating-game (not sponsored by Pat Sajak), and the coin toss of codependent abuse, or friends labeling, “Wow they’re really well-adjusted.” Labored jokes aside, the point is this: the dating scene ain’t pretty out in LA. And I’ve got almost half a pandemic’s worth of experience to prove it.
I became completely enamored with this girl who had been chatting me up—as a side piece. I had planned quite the epic date: a perfect night of sushi, story inspiring bars, and a long and weathered walk through beautiful architecture to close out the night. Everyone was getting vaccinated, and people in our age bracket were about to be released back into the club scene like the wild, horny, boars we were.
Unfortunately, all of that went to shit. She texted me a half-hour before the date, telling me that she would be there. However, after I waited at the restaurant for an hour, she texted me that she wasn’t coming. I had a California roll, left a 100% tip, and decided to walk the streets of Pasadena more depressed than I’d been in months.
Quarantine has given everyone moments of sadness, intense rage, grief, mood swings, and violent junk food cravings. But when I tell you that walking around the streets of Pasadena—gazing at couples who looked entirely happier than I was—felt like a new low. . . I fucking mean it!!!
I had felt dejection in these particular streets before, but never this poignant, and never this sober. I walked once around the entire perimeter of Old Pasadena, but nevertheless, I kept walking until my feet were sore.
When I’d worn out my shoes and went stationary, I started people-watching. One of my favorite post-depression pick-me-ups. I started coming up with stories about random passersby, inventing little fantasies in my head of dates that went a lot better than mine.
I was in the middle of making up a charming ending to a particularly cute design student date I saw going on when I was suddenly accosted by one of the most enchanting future comic book shop owners I’ve ever seen in my life. He was the picture of the student employee at GameStop. Tall, broad, slightly overweight build, long brown hair, and with a copy of Pokémon Blue with a Game Boy adapter for the GameCube. I know that’s oddly specific, but goddammit, it was the truth.
Anyway, I heard him say something through my headphones, so I took them out to say, “Sorry, what?”
And he said, “Wine or champagne?”
And, as I’ve already stated, I was very sad so I responded, “Both!”
He said, “Great, are you awaiting a second member of your party tonight?”
I began to laugh hysterically.
“You think I’d be looking this sad if I hadn’t already been stood up?”
“Oh, well I’m sorry to hear that.”
“No, no,” I said, “I’m not too sad to try something new—I’m intrigued. I’d love to know more about this place.”
After that very awkward start, we descended into a friendly conversation. It turned out that he was a bouncer and host for a new speakeasy that had opened during the pandemic. Not the best business decision in my opinion, but I kept my mouth shut about that so we could keep talking. After a thrilling 15-minute discourse over Pokemon Blue cheats, I finally descended into the speakeasy.
I’d only ever been to New York speakeasies, so the bar was already set high. Most are scattered around Manhattan, but I’d managed to find one or two in Brooklyn. Each speakeasy was a gloriously individualistic experience, as they tried to carve out different pieces of New York’s history and culture.
So, when this place started off by announcing itself to me as a “speakeasy,” I began bracing myself for disappointment. The place the elevator dropped me into further lowered my expectations. It was filled with decorations I had been familiar with since my days as a third-grader, when I helped my dad with school haunted houses to help raise money. Cheap leaves and fake barrels led to what honestly looked like a bathroom entrance. But that’s where all of my expectations were subverted.
The cheap wine barrel wall opened up and the atmosphere changed in an instant! The walls were lined with expensive wine organized via country and hemisphere. The pillars that held the place together were lined with beautiful first and second editions of books I’d never heard of. A wall of books by writers like Shakespeare, T.S. Eliot, Benjamin Franklin, Mark Twain, and so many more. There was an entire wall of famous headlines from across the 20th century, including “Nixon Impeached,” and “Men Walk on The Moon.” There were leather couches, tree roots poking in from the ceiling, and best of all, a piano constantly playing—from what I thought was a speaker—the best of classical sonatas and concertos.
Then, a waiter tried to seat me next to the kitchen and my depression came thundering back down the mountain. I’d worked as a host for about seven months, and I knew I’d be sympathizing with every dead-eyed busboy and waiter who came out of the kitchen doors. And tonight, I could only muster about half the sympathy I needed for myself, so that wouldn’t do. Plus, I would’ve had to endure watching three other couples, again, looking infuriatingly content in their relationships.
I requested another spot, but there were no tables open. However, the beautiful leather couches were all free. The one caveat was that in order to sit there, you had to buy a bottle.
I asked the waiter to bring me the least expensive bottle on the menu and I made the choice to drink my week’s wages in my own little hideaway—my personal escape from the reality of being rejected that was waiting for me above, on the streets of Pasadena.
I set out my arsenal to fight the negative thoughts: a chess game for one, a playlist of sad songs in case I got tired of the classical piano, and a brand new book. Now, I’d never read Courtiers and Favorites of Royalty by Talleyrand, but after three very full glasses of the most earthy red I’d ever had, I thought it was the greatest memoir ever written. It was saucy, indignant, and exactly what I wanted out of a French aristocrat’s memoir. As I kept reading more about the man, I found out that his whole life was an adventure. He survived not only the French Revolution but the subsequent governments after it and Napoleon. Of course, this book was a mere distraction compared to the absolute zoo of characters that populated this part of the speakeasy. The people-watching was bountiful, and I intended to gorge myself.
I started with the 60-year-old couple who appeared to be very confused by their surroundings. They asked the waiter questions and sought comfort in social interactions. I imagined that their marriage was happily unimaginative, and well sustained for that fact. Next, was a confident-looking woman and her less confident-looking friend bucking each other up after an obvious defeat. They spoke in nasal mezzo-soprano tones that cut across the noise-filled room straight to my table. Their conversation was filled with, “Oh, she did not’s,” and, “You are so out of his league’s.” They seemed like the standard conversational elements for a pair trying to fight off the same sadness that I was. And, at least for me, there was some comfort in that. Then, to my immediate right flank, there was—what else—a date, which seemed to be going in and out of dangerous waters.
The guy with a big nose and the girl with a big heart at the table to my right seemed to be desperately trying to keep a conversation up in the air. But every time they managed to get a few chuckles or stumble upon one of the other’s passions, the big nose boy would crack an inappropriate joke, or the girl with the big heart would let the awkward silence descend once again. I was honestly hoping for them to gain some ground, for them to actually start falling for each other. But after watching them try and fail for about an hour, I began to consider the merits of entertaining one’s self.
But of course, I have saved the best of these unpredicted encounters for last. The couple to conquer the night, a pair I’d eventually know as the Viking and the explorer and the only couple I would learn the names of: Erica and Jenny.
They spoke as if they owned the bar, like the Bard and the Barbarian coming to spread stories of ale and better days. I couldn’t tell if they were romantically involved or if they were “just” friends. There was obviously a strong bond that defied any description. And if anyone would try, no one but the great romantic masters of old should’ve attempted to give them one.
It was at this point that I realized I would not be able to drink the entire bottle I had purchased. So, after wolfing down the incredibly overpriced appetizers I had ordered to help me imbibe entirely too much of the wine, I asked for the check. But not before taking one last tour of my surroundings.
With no small amount of effort, I managed to stand up from my leather throne and came across a discovery that would put the whole night into perspective. The piano that I thought had simply been decorative and accompanied by speakers turned out to be a self-playing instrument. I marveled at it. This whole time I had been entertained and had my spirits lifted by something that was playing itself. And at that moment I realized that during this night that had started so poorly, I’d become a self-playing-instrument.
All the thinking, drinking, and most importantly, storytelling that I had enjoyed, ended up making a pretty damn good story on its own. I didn’t need someone else to play me or give me approval or validation. I’m pretty judgmental as it is, and for once, I had judged myself to be enough. That feeling was so unfamiliar to me that when it hit, I thought I was going to burst into tears. I’d heard the same slogan of self-love and self-compassion for years, but it had never made sense until that very moment.
As Jenny and Erica came over to marvel at the piano with me, I learned their names. I asked them if they would mind being the closing note on a story that I would write, the story that you just read. They said yes and asked what kind of story it would be? I told them it would be a story that would be about adventure, decor, and learning a lesson that evaded me for a long, long, time.