Brooklyn
September 30th, 2015
Bar 369 on Baxter Street is a New York institution—one that I’ve been going to since I was a kid. My father, Ofer, used to take me there with his buddies as soon as it opened on Sundays at 2 p.m. All the bartenders knew our names, and my order would always be waiting with three toothpick umbrellas hanging out of it. I’d sit on a wobbly stool next to Jimmy, the owner—who looked like Hagrid from Harry Potter—reading Archie comics and downing endless Shirley temples with extra maraschino cherries.
My father, meanwhile, held court in the back of the bar, near a pair of broken lava lamps, retelling the same stories and conspiracy theories to his friends.
“Heyo, Joey, what’s the story?” (Joey’s been my father’s best friend since the ‘70s).
“Ofer, good to see y—”
Before Joey can finish, my father cuts him off.
“Joey, Joey, listen to this. Boy, do I got something good for you and the fellas today.” He pulls out a chair and sits down like he’s about to deliver major news. “I’ve been thinking—and you know how everyone’s using the email now? Well, something about that is off. You know AOL? The thing at the end of the emails?”
“Yeah…” Joey says, waiting for him to make a point. Johnny and Thomas—the meatball twins, as my dad used to call them—lean in.
“Well. I think those people with the aol.com are Cold War-era sleeper agents. I’m telling you, these people, they have diplomatic immunity. They know the truth about the moon landing.”
His friends hang onto every word—then burst into laughter, slap each other's backs, and order another round, already moving on to the next unhinged theory.
Over twenty-five years later, I’m sitting in the same spot next to Jimmy, his once-unruly chestnut hair now peppered white, waiting for Shay. He still puts an inappropriate amount of umbrella toothpicks in my drinks—except this time, it’s a triple tequila soda with extra lime.
Shay walks in, and she's stunning—the kind of beauty that doesn’t look real at first, so you squint just to make sure your eyes aren’t deceiving you. Before she comes over to hug me, she heads to the jukebox to change the music.
Alt-J comes on loudly overhead:
She may contain the urge to run away,
But hold her down with soggy clothes and
Breezeblocks…
Her icy blonde hair is in a loose braid, and she’s wearing a baby-t I gave her as a joke over Hanukkah. The shirt shows a girl in a straightjacket facing a bare white wall with the words I got too silly scrawled across it in big block letters. She gives Jimmy a kiss on the cheek and places her hand on my shoulder.
“A little early in the week for a meeting of the minds, no?”
The drinks at 369 are god awful, and the only things on the top shelf are dusty troll dolls from the early ‘90s. We order two rounds of picklebacks, and I gag as the second one hits my empty stomach.
“I’m almost afraid to ask,” she says, as a pack of Marlboros she tries to slide towards me gets stuck in a sticky spot on the table. “What’s going on?”
I tell Shay everything—from berating my boss and quitting, to my fight with Nite and my impulsive (her words, not mine) plan to fly to Bangkok to see what’s really going on with my father. Her steely blue eyes grow wider with every new layer of the story, and by the end, there are at least six empty shot glasses in front of each of us.
Jimmy, pretending not to listen the entire time, is now also drinking—filling his glass with less soda water each round. An obnoxious man in his early twenties, wearing a baby blue Patagonia fleece vest, snaps his fingers to get Jimmy’s attention. Bad idea.
The next thing I see is Jimmy growl, “Did you just snap your soft fingers at me, kid?” Vest-boy takes a step back and bumps into a stool, flustered. He opens his mouth, trying to explain—they’d been waiting more than five minutes to order—but the words falter, dissolving mid-sentence.
Jimmy’s chest puffs out like a pigeon. “Kid, I don’t give a flying fuck how long you’ve been waiting.” He straightens his back and plants his calloused hands on the bar. “You see this bar?”
Vest-boy nods apprehensively.
“This bar is mine. You’re in my house. You—and your gaggle of dumb geese over there—get the fuck outta here. Now!”
Shay and I look at each other and smile, There needs to be more Jimmys in the world.
“Isra, I need a sec to digest all of this. It’s a lot,” she says, taking a long sip of her vodka ginger.
“To be honest, I don’t even know where to start, but I’m really fucking sorry this is happening to you.”
I look down at her strappy black heels, hooked onto the side of the stool. My face is hot, and for the first time, my eyes start to water. This isn’t supposed to happen to me. My drugs block this, right?
“You’ve been through a lot, especially the past few years, and I just need you to keep talking to me. Or Eli. At least one of us. You have a pretty shitty habit of holding all the bad in until you can’t anymore, then you fucking explode, and it’s getting harder to know where all the pieces are. I’m worried about you.”
The floor is coated in a thin layer of dirt, and all I want to do is stop this conversation, jump behind the bar, and grab a mop. Instead, I let out a tepid, “Yeah, you’re right.”
“Look, babe, you’ve been understandably shut down since the funeral. And now you get this fucked-up news about your dad. It’s not fair—but it is what’s happening. I’m not saying don’t go to Thailand—of course go. Your dad is sick. All I’m saying is maybe slow down. Take a beat. Plan your next move out a little more. I think going this week is a bit extreme. You need to talk to your dad first, get all the facts straight.”
The bar is getting busier and the music is so loud that I can’t focus. I glance over at a young couple mid-argument—the girlfriend, in a ridiculously tight bandage dress, is railing at her boyfriend for checking out someone clearly hotter than her who just walked by. Shay places her hand on my knee, a small gesture of encouragement, but I stay silent.
“You know, I was excited when you decided to pick your manuscript back up. I think writing might actually help you get out of this hole—drinking too, obviously,” she says with a smirk, ordering another round.
“Eli told me that you’ve been digging through old archives at the Center for Jewish History? That’s big. I think this project could be a good way for you and your dad to finally have a real conversation about the past.” She pauses, searching for the right tone. “So maybe talk to him first, then figure out when it actually makes sense for you to fly out. I just don’t think you need to completely light your life on fire to justify going.”
*
The worst part about being drunk at a crowded bar—aside from the inevitable hangover and shame—is going into the bathroom and not knowing how to lock the door, so you end up peeing in a shaky squat, arms stretched out to hold it closed.
My eyesight is blurry, and I realize my sunglasses are still on. My sweater is stuck to my moist skin. The sun set long ago and I didn’t even notice.
369 Bar is like being in Las Vegas: no clocks, no real windows, no sense of how long you’ve been there. Everything smells like stale beer and oysters (which they don’t sell), and the worst offense—the lighting. It’s still my favorite place in New York though. This is where I come for comfort, chaos, and collapse.
Shay’s knees are now pressed against mine, and she’s centimeters from my face, her breath heavy with cheap tequila. There’s a little smear of Ruby Woo red lipstick on her front teeth, but I don’t say anything.
“Babe, I gotta go meet Noa, but I’ll call you tomorrow, okay? Please think about what I said—and don’t buy the flight yet. Let’s see how you feel when you’re less, well, manic. Oh—also, I texted Eli. He’s on his way.”
The two of them are acting like my conservators. I’m not to be trusted on my own for more than a bathroom break.
Jimmy’s barback, Harvey, is telling me how he thinks Pizza Rat—the brown rodent famously captured carrying a slice of pepperoni pizza down the steps of the Broadway-Lafayette subway stop—was a psy-op staged by the NYC Tourism Board in Collaboration with the MTA. My dad would love Harvey. I’m laughing, tipsy, when I feel a familiar hand on the small of my back.
“Sorry to interrupt, guys. Isra—I’ve been texting you all day. Sadie called me and told me about what happened at the office. Did you really just quit? Are you okay?”
Eli looks exhausted. His vibrant green eyes are dull and glassy. He’s usually so neat and put together, but right now his button-down is wrinkled, like he picked it out of the bottom of the laundry basket. His hair hasn’t moved since this morning.
“Oh—yeah, sorry. I…I’ve just been a bit all over the place today,” I mumble, my words slurring slightly.
“I’ve been worried about you all day. I get out of the shower this morning and you’re suddenly gone, and then I get a frantic call from Sadie telling me you quit during a meeting and called everyone a dipshit?
“Neanderthal,” I correct him. “I called them all Neanderthals.”
“Okay, sure—Neanderthals. And then I called out of work and spent the whole day trying to track you down. When I went back home to relieve Tommy, I saw that the tub was full of water and the music was blasting. Thankfully, Shay texted me to say she was meeting you here.”
Eli looks genuinely distressed, and I feel bad. I’ve put him through a lot over the years, and I can see it’s wearing on him.
“I’m sorry, alright. I don’t know what to tell you. My fucking dad is dying. My career is a joke. My sister is fundamentally incapable of showing up when I need her. I’m angry. I’m sad. I’m wasted. I can’t have this conversation with you right now. Let’s just go.”
Jimmy waves his hand when Eli tries to pay the tab, refusing to take his card. Eli leans in to say something, subtly leaving a tip on the bar. I stumble ahead of him to get some fresh air. I have no idea what time it is. I check my phone, but it’s dead.
Two guys are sitting on the steps to the right of the bar entrance. They wave me over. I ignore them, grab a cigarette, and light it with shaky hands. When was the last time I ate?
One of them stands and walks over. He’s got an athletic build, short dark hair, light brown skin, and a long scar next to his mouth that looks like a poorly sewn seam.
“Can I bum a cigarette?” he asks, giving me a lingering look.
Without saying anything, I hand him one and fold my right arm under my left, hoping he goes away. Back in my twenties, I would’ve slept with this guy in the bathroom stall without even asking his name.
“Who are you waiting for?” he asks, cheekily. He thinks my silence means I'm playing hard to get.
I don’t answer his question. Instead, I tilt my head toward the bar and take another drag.
“Wanna go back inside? I’ll buy you a drink?” He doesn’t break eye contact, and I wonder where Eli is—probably getting a debrief from Jimmy. Traitor.
Feeling reckless, I give him a wry smile. “A drink isn’t gonna cut it.”
“Oh is that right?” he says with a grin. “If that’s the case, I’ll order you the entire menu. I’m Kian, by the way. What’s your name?
“Isra.”
He asks if my name means ‘journey’ in Arabic (not even close) and looks impressed with himself. My whole life I’ve been ethnically ambiguous. Couple that with my tattoos and I’m almost impossible to place.
“No, it means freedom in Thai. I was born in Bangkok. Half-Thai, half-Russian Jew. Dad’s from Borough Park.” I stub my cigarette out on a tilting stop sign. I have no idea why I’m telling this random guy actual facts about my life, but I keep going, explaining that my father was part of the Hasidic community there back in the ‘40s and ‘50s—before he ran away.
Kian’s intrigued. He steps in closer, his shoulder now touching mine. His long fingers settle at my elbow.
“Interesting, so you’re Jewish?” he asks.
“Kinda. When I was a kid, my dad told me to tell Mormon missionaries that I was a BuJew (Buddhist-Jew) so they’d get confused and leave us alone. So I guess that’s what I am.”
Kian laughs, “BuJew—never heard of that before. Clever.”
Our eyes lock, and he’s so close that when he exhales, the baby hairs on my forehead lift. He smells like a mix between weed, sweat, and sandalwood. I lean in slightly.
“ISRA, come here!” I hear Eli yell. “Isra, please. NOW.”
“Guess that’s my cue. Gotta go.”
Without looking back, I try to walk like a normal person over to Eli and get in the taxi he’s holding a door to, but my sunglasses are still on and I can barely see. He looks exasperated, and I can tell the night isn’t going to end well.
Eli gives the driver our address through a plexiglass partition caked in grime, then sinks into the seat. Instinctively, he leans over and gently buckles me in—just like he used to. Back when episodes like this were routine. Before I leveled out.
“Isra, I get that today has been completely fucked. I get that you’re overwhelmed—but instead of turning toward me, you do careless shit like that. It hurts. Please. I’m trying to support you. Can you just let me be there for you?” he says, voice low—more pleading than angry.
Since I was a teenager, I’ve had a compulsive urge to mess everything up the moment things felt too good to be true. Before Eli, I sabotaged every relationship I was in. Sometimes I did it out of boredom. I wanted to see how far the other person would go to be with me. Horrible, I know. But it made me feel in control—like I had the power to dictate someone else’s happiness.
The men I used to attract came from nice normal families. They usually lived in one home their entire lives, went to the same high school all four years. If you walked into their homes, there’d be a staircase lined with smiley family photos.
They were the kind of men who believed they were different from the people they grew up with—drawn to otherness, enamored by the chaos of a woman they had nothing in common with.
Over time, I realized I wasn’t a girlfriend. I was a glittery showpiece—a badge that told the world they were more complicated, more interesting than they really were. In the end, they were just like the fathers they claimed to despise—out looking for a trophy wife of their own.
I don’t look at Eli, it’s too much. I know he’s one of the best things in my life, but instead of leaning into that, I choose rage. Rage is easier. Rage is familiar. Rage feels good.
“What the fuck do you want from me, Eli?” I say, seething.
He’s quiet. The driver glances at him sympathetically in the rearview mirror, then turns up the music—it’s Pakistani rock, and it fills the taxi with a beat that makes me feel even more wasted.
“You have no idea what this feels like. What it’s like not being able to depend on your family. To have no one call just to check in or express any curiosity about your life. My mom didn’t even know I went to grad school. And my dad was always too caught up in whatever was in front of him—a new younger woman, a new country, a new group of strangers to entertain—”
Eli and the driver both shift uncomfortably in their seats.
“Your parents call you every fucking weekend just to hear your voice. You haven’t been through anything, Eli!” As the words leave my mouth, all I want to do is catch them in the air and swallow them back whole.
The only sound in the car is the shimmery, metallic drone of the sitar. Eli moves closer to the window and looks out, not saying another word.
And instead of placing my hand on his leg and apologizing, I take out my phone and book the first flight out of JFK to Bangkok, leaving tomorrow morning.
Sorry, Shay.
*
September 30th
Packing has never been my strong suit. I always leave it until the last minute, then act surprised when I land and don’t have anything I actually need. I look down at my bag, confident the pattern will hold.
It’s 5am and still dark outside. I haven’t slept. I just laid in bed alone, waiting for my alarm clock to go off while Eli passed out on the couch, not even looking at me.
I slipped out without saying goodbye, too humiliated to face the fallout from the night before.
