Lobby Bar

This was written some time ago but I found the notes in an old file and brushed them up for the blog. Hope you enjoy...

Hotel Lobby Bars in New York have a special lighting. It’s the combination of dark oak walls, luscious carpets and the ochre shades of lamps. They are usually noisy as well. Somehow just a few Americans are able to create a whole racket all on their own. It’s not unpleasant though; I would say it makes the otherwise dim environment lively. The lobby bar at the Roosevelt Hotel is no exception. Perhaps the outstanding element is the lousy service. I sometimes get the impression that all of New York is in too much of a hurry to be polite. There is always something more important happening elsewhere. There is no time!

I manage to find an empty spot in a corner. These are my favorite. It’s like having a little space all to myself without giving up the view; my own personal observation centre and base of operations. The bar is crowded and the minute tables are cluttered with empty glasses and fallen cashews. There is a skinny Asian who apparently tends this area but he passes me by and ignores me once, twice. He has been clearing some tables and taking orders but not mine. Is it a self service joint? A family of Spaniards sit at the table next to mine. They come with their own drinks. Perhaps it is a self service joint after all. Such elegance in furniture and decoration spoiled on this American vice of informality… Of course I am here on my own with my laptop. Should I stand up to help myself my own drink; leaving my baby alone and unattended?

It’s New York after all so I get to my feet and approach the bar. The barman is a big guy with a hostile look. What’s wrong with you people? I just want to wash away my misery with some scotch. Is that a sin? Am I bugging you? He finally looks at me square in the eye and makes the minimum gesture of acknowledgement. Now that I think of it, I am not even sure what part of his face has moved. If I had to guess, I’d say he has slightly arched his eyebrows… ‘What?!’ he seems to be asking.

I order a double Black Label with ice and inquire about the food menu. ‘Are you at a table?’ I nod upwards with a snarl, trying to be impolite on purpose. ‘You think you can push me around big guy?’ I tell myself. He looks away as he leaves the glass in front of me and I can barely hear him say: ‘You’ll be waited on at your table, Sir’. The funny thing about New York is that rudeness is almost a part of the mystique. You come to the city, you shop, you take pictures of fucking Times Square and you get ill treated. Just part of the show! The Asian guy finally shows up at my table while I am in the middle of my first, wonderful gulp of cold scotch. I order the ‘Sea Food Trio’ and wonder what the hell will come. It turns out to be a wonder of deep fried squid, genetically modified oversized jumbo shrimps and a glass full of fishy bits and pieces. A delight! Mmmhhh. That’s another thing about New York. It’s hard to go wrong with food. That is, of course, if you are ready for spicy bites and weird looking stuff. What a delight. I munch it all up while I type. Yes sir, I am the one and only ‘gobbler of dregs’! See if you can find out what that means! I dare you!

I notice a girl sitting alone at the bar. She is pretty and she is wearing a black dress with an insinuating cleavage. I wonder if she is expecting someone. I watch her for a moment and manage to see the hulky barman approaching her. Will he be as rude to her as he was to me? I should wear cleavage to bars to get my damn drinks! In any case, I am a bit surprised when I notice they seem to know each other. Big guy cracks a joke that I can’t really hear and the girl giggles. She looks sweet and for some reason I change my focus towards the empty whiskey glass. All this traveling really takes its toll and I sometimes feel a bit alienated: cars with drivers, lines at the airport, sitting around in linoleum floored and fluorescent light waiting rooms, airplanes and their NASA food, hotel lobbies and dim, impersonal rooms, eating alone in restaurants, etc, etc, etc.

I am distracted by a voice: ‘Will you want anything else, Sir?’ Now you guys are going to suffer rudeness! You know the saying: when the going gets tough, the tough get going! I look up with a slightly annoyed expression. ‘Huh?’ ‘Would you like another drink, Sir?’ It’s the Asian guy. So now you suddenly worry about the customer? I ask him if they pour Sam Adams Beer. If I order another whiskey they are going to have to drag me out. He nods and I just raise my finger to order one. I won’t give him the pleasure. It is kind of funny after all; just a little macho display of feathers and penis measuring. The guy is doing his fucking job after all and I am just miserable and feeling suicidal. Can’t we all just get along? I guess this is alcohol talking. Suddenly I want to be friends with the Asian dude?

The girl in the black dress moves away from the bar and sits on a tall stool in front of a mic. Who would have said? It turns out she is the singer and as soon as she takes her place the voices and general clatter start competing with some soft pre-recorded music. She sings ‘Killing me softly’ and I start feeling a bit like Bill Murray in that wonderful movie, ‘Lost in translation’. Nobody pays the least attention to her. In fact, I would even say that people have raised their voices to be heard over the music. I wonder how that feels for her. Does she have aspirations as a singer? Is this something she does while she’s waiting for her break?

By this time I feel pretty drunk. I suppose the glass of Cabernet Sauvignon and the Glenlivet I had earlier in the afternoon are still circulating through my bloodstream. I am such a waste of good life, health and intelligence... Why is it so hard to be happy? Is it all my traveling that has put me in this gloomy state of mind? After hours and hours of moving from one anonymous hotel room to another, of talking about the weather with countless anonymous drivers, of shaking hands with guys I don’t give a rat’s ass about, of sleeping on planes and wondering if the neck pain I have will ever go away… The Asian guy returns to my table and I look at him with lost eyes. Whose turn is it now to be weak? I stutter and falter. What do I want? He just looks at me and his face is a collection of impatient gestures; as if Giselle Bundchen were waiting for him with her thighs spread open somewhere else. So what do you want stupid?! Do you want to get it over with and blackout? Black… Yes! ‘A double Black Label with ice!’

The whiskey tastes sour. I look into its depths when I take the glass to my mouth, as if something within held a hypnotic effect on me. It seems to enclose a mystery, a cipher. It is the mother of all questions, the Holy Grail we all seem to chase our entire lives. As the ice melts a bit, the chunks move around and make that tingling sound that only ice in a whiskey glass con produce. A mystery, huh? Will I solve it sitting here feeling pity for myself? Not likely. In any case, I am pressed with a more urgent question. How the fuck will I get back to my room?