A giant inflated pink flamingo hung over Debbie's and Lori's heads as they gossipped about their old college roommates. Debbie clutched the edge of the bar, a sheet of glass under which postcards of Miami and Daytona Beach were placed.
Above the long, horizontal mirror across the bar was a road sign. Had it been in its appropriate setting, it would have been pointing out one of the postcard destinations to crazed college kids en route to their Spring Break. That was it. The theme of the bar: not paradise or Florida or beach souvenir shop, but an all-out tribute to the American tradition called Spring Break.
Tourist shop souvenirs were everywhere. A stuffed alligator balanced on a row of select bottles of domestic and imported beer. There were seashells combed from the very beaches, more road signs, ornate drinking mugs, and a giant green 'gator suspended over the dining area.
A swizzle stick with a blue shark rose out of Debbie's pineapple flavored drink. A fancy mermaid rested in Lori's fizz. The bright colors and plastic souvenirs made for a flamboyant, happy ambiance.
"This is my kind of place," Debbie giggled. She considered herself overdressed, in an aquamarine clingy skirt and turquoise beads. She actually fit into the picture rather well. Lori appeared even more skinny than usual in fitted jeans and a belted over-size pink top.
Debbie looked to her left. Someone had taken the bar stool next to her and was talking to her. He had dark uncombed hair and a small mustache.
His tee shirt and jeans suggested a friendly attitude, a casual lifestyle.
"You should try this," he suggested. He held up an ornate mug.
"What is it?" she asked.
He pronounced a word that had a wild, tropical, fun sound to Debbie.
"We have to order that," Debbie turned to Lori.
"What is it?" Lori asked disinterestedly.
"Oh, I don't know. Bahamarama or something like that. Let's get it." Her fellow bar mate had friends and they introduced each other, making rounds with comrades and drinks. It turned out they were visiting from Vancouver as part of a grad school project.
"What's it like?"
"Vancouver? Oh, it's great. Beautiful there."
"Washington, right?"
"No, Canada."
"Oooh, I never met someone from there before."
One of the quieter of the trio had cornered Lori. He looked a little like Phil Collins.
"What books have you read? Did you ever read The Catcher in the Rye?"
Lori froze. An avid reader she was not.
"Yeah, in high school," she sneered. She rolled her eyes at the ceiling. The scholar did not notice. He merely desired an intelligent conversation with an attractive girl. Or with the guys, it did not matter. As long as the conversation had substance.
Lori attempted to snub his inquiries but the intellectual was not deterred. He wanted to know all of the books she had read, what she thought of them.
Mark was 25. Someone her mental age for a change, Debbie thought. She liked to have fun, loved it, in fact, but sometimes a conversation needed depth. She could not tolerate meaningless small talk, gibberish that went on for hours and hours, especially with Lori. Yes, it was nearly impossible to have a normal conversation with her roommate. Often she would say anything to get a conversation started, revealing things she shouldn't have, to avoid the awkward silences that were such a big part of their "friendship." Friendship was not quite right. She never introduced Lori as her friend, but as her roommate.
"Mark, John, Steve, this is Lori, my roommate." The word, friend inexplicably stuck in her throat. But Mark and Steve were good company tonight.
They took turns refilling their ornate mugs and then it was time to close the bar. You cold not tell the bar was closed, though, because the lights were already on. Christmas in July. They walked out the door, under the anachronistic Christmas lights into the warm summer night.
Lori turned to take the waiting bus downtown. No doubt, her token was already in her hand, Debbie thought.
"Wanna share a cab? We're staying at NYU."
"We're going to the Village, too. Let's go!" and before Lori could protest, Debbie had jumped into the cab with the boys.
Steve, who had been low-key all evening, was starting to show signs of unrest. He revealed an enthusiasm for New York. His tall lanky appearance and punk haircut gave him the look of a would-be rock star.
"It's a lot different. It's great!" he said. He appeared restless, as if he were about to leap out of the cab in search of all the other exciting places that lay in wait throughout the city.
"It's different, all right," Debbie spoke up. "It can be fun but then, there's the subway."
She launched into an imitation of a typical passenger on the grimy underground train she took daily to work.
"Somebody please help me! My children are dying! My mother's an alchoholic and my father's starving!" She screamed. Then she burst out laughing.
"Stop. We can't take it," one of the boys cut in.
Then Lori started. "There's this man with flippers for arms and no legs. He plays the drums. I see him everywhere. He haunts me."
"Ugh. Can't take it." Mark put his hands over his ears.
"No, can't handle it," someone else said.
They divided the cab fare and piled out of the cab onto Second Avenue. There was a colorful Mexican food place and that dinosaur bar {Continental Divide} {sic} But they chose a place with a theatrical theme, complete with a pair of thespian masks on the walls and a wierd cast of waiters. Wierd to out-of-towners, normal to New York.
The quiet one named John was still trying to have his share of intellectual conversation with Lori. He stared intently at her as he pounced upon a new theory. Debbie lent an ear out of curiosity.
Now the other guys had gotten involved in the coveted conversation. It had something to do with biology and genetics and creating the perfect species.
"This is really interesting," Lori said.
"Ugh. Save it for later," Debbie said. She hated these useless, opinionated conversations. It was too late, or rather too early in the morning for their deep thoughts.
Steve, who had been quiet for a while, was suddenly coming to life, now that it was twilight. He was getting a little too loud and obnoxious, like a college freshman who has been introduced to beer.
Debbie's head was throbbing and she was starving, but not for nachos and red sauce.
Finally, they all agreed to call and have dinner tomorrow night, before returning to Vancouver.
DENISE HICKEY
Summer of 1987
The East Village
# 0658D
