A moment in a Philly dive bar
A beer and a shot before midday never hurts, right?
Acquainting myself with the new neighborhood in a new town means I’m at the right side of a sticky bar with the sun barely peeking through the busted blinds on the window.
It’s a dump of a place. But that’s okay, it was the only bar I could find open in the city proper before midday on a Sunday.
I’m in between errands, having sliced away from the family to take care of some lingering life admin. It’s mundane stuff, like refreshing mine and the wife’s underwear and sock rotation, checking out bicycles for Maala’s upcoming 3rd birthday, and grabbing a bag of charcoal for grilling later.
But even though it’s mundane, it’s time on the bike, and it’s time to myself. So it’s also time that needs to be enjoyed.
They warn you about all sorts of things before you become a parent—like the diaper changes, tantrums, the sleepless nights, screaming fits, messy and fussy eating, sticky hands, and all that emotional warfare. But no one ever mentions much about how the sweet, long days of meandering nothingness are over.
Like when you could sit at a coffee shop for hours and read. Or meet friends at a bar, make plans with them on the spot, change those plans, and head to another bar. Or cycle through town, cruise down side streets, and venture through boroughs, stopping wherever you like to do whatever you want.
It’s the freedom of not having to schedule free time around nap time, milk time, lunchtime, dinner time, or any time.
So inevitably I’ve come to view errands in a different light as a parent. They represent a mini wedge of freedom in the day.
Maybe not freedom as it used to be but it’s freedom nonetheless.
These days, I love me a good errand. Especially if I can tackle it while zipping through city streets on a bike. Darting between traffic, beating the lights, and cranking music in my earphones as my veins pump with endorphins and my legs burn from lactic acid is another kind of high.
That brings me to this Center City bar at 11:00 am. I’ve made good time, having already pedaled my way across town in the crisp morning breeze to two local bike stores in search of Maala’s birthday present.
Now I’m back in Center City, bike locked up, waiting for Uniqlo to open at midday with a sweet sixty minutes of free time to kill.
My bartender for the morning stopover is a tattooed fella who’s lanky like a flag pole with a sharp beard and boredom in his eyes. He moves with the excitement of a religious tradition.
To the left, through the musty air, some brute is drooped over the bar with a loose hand grasping a dirty beer glass. A faded green Eagles jersey hugs the creases of his body, no doubt waiting for the Sunday ticket of football kicking off in a few hours’ time. Though, I’m not convinced he can stay upright for that long.
The TV spews news on mute. Yacht Rock plays through the speakers on a low volume and I hope the staleness of the place hasn’t seeped into the beer lines.
A drink will surely wash down my trepidation.
“Do you have anything from a local brewery?”
“Yup, this Yards Pale Ale ain’t that bad. It’s kinda strong but it’s still light enough to chug, if that’s your thing.”
It’s not.
He pours a pint and I can’t help but notice the lipstick on the rim of the glass. I look to see if the man to my left has moved.
He hasn’t.
I raise the glass and nod to my bartender before sliding a 20 dollar note over the bar.
“Wanna shot with that?”
I start my usual refrain about not doing shots—shots are for amateurs, I like to say—but I can see him strain as he tries to stop his eyes from rolling.
“F*ck it, I’ll do one. Whiskey,” I say.
He pours the shot.
I’m brimming with enthusiasm. Giddy like the front-end of a long buffet line. The freedom of the moment overwhelms me. It’s a vibrant awakening.
I tell the barkeep about how I recently moved to Philly. “A good reason as any for a toast, eh?” I say, trying to pull him into the warm glow of my happiness.
He resists the invitation and instead walks off, leaving me on my own with the cheap whiskey to toast myself.
I take the shot and wash down its dank taste with another long sip of Yards.
I make the “ahhh!” sound that typically follows when a refreshment completes its task. I lick the froth from the top of my lip and place the beer gingerly on the bar without ever losing eye contact with it.
As the booze seeps into my hurried mind and gets to work on all that tension and tightness, I make a note to savor this little priceless moment. I lean back into my chair and let it all sink in: The stillness of the moment, the froth of the beer, the stench of the bar, the excess whisky that’s pooled around the empty shot glass.
I signal to the bartender and he eventually finds his way back to me.
“Anything else?”
“Yeah, how about my change?”
Maybe ‘priceless’ is the wrong word.