Gettin' Acquainted

10-21-36

I scurried out of my apartment room with a backpack dangled on my spine and notebook in hand, dodging various hotel workers and fellow residents on my way towards the exit. My journey through the elevator, although an arduous voyage, was short-lived, and I was relieved to indeed be at my destination. Now I jaunted out victorious, beating the trials of both time and crowded hallways to embark on a new quest across the even more trying seas of New York City infrastructure and transit. (Christopher Columbus would piss his pants if he had to cross through a rush-hour Times Square to get to America!)

Oh yes, it was a beast. Cars buzzing by at electrifying speeds, New Yorkers of all types rushing to work, school or to just argue about some political bullshit with their friends, pigeons begging for you to either end their monotonous existences or step aside so they could consume their barely-edible lot of bread crumbs and meat chunks strewn nicely on the ground. It was quite the experience to be in this mercilessly quick and overwhelming machine, although one that left an everlasting impression on me. If only because I was hardened by its transit-tribulations.

Now, where were we? Oh, yeah, the bar.

Peterson's Bar. The crown jewel of New York entertainment. If a man with a strangely designed 'N' and 'Y' cap says no to this objective assumption, you are to immediately deem him as either an insane man or a liar. This was drunk, gregarious heaven, I say. Maybe a heaven even better than the real one! (Those be-damned socialists don't believe in the holy cross, so it's definitely heaven for them!)

Anyway…

I gently opened the doors after breathing in a great gust of air from the outside world, entering this new and exotic place of coziness. I could see waiters dealing delectable drink and food to the establishment's patrons, their feet swishing each and every way to the rhythm of Duke Ellington blues. The bar's denizens held faces that were as gay and joyous as could be, taking pride in drinking away their lives with a smile. If hell's bound to freeze over, then why not enjoy yourself while fate's going at it?

After this bout of prolonged gawking, I strutted over and sat down on a roughly polished stool beside my trio of friends present at Peterson's.

"Hey, Rick. It's a beautiful day, and we're having fun drinking the night away. I saved a beer for you, too. Have a sip, will you?" spoke the generous and cordial David Milton White, words crooned in an elevated Princeton accent. He was an old college friend of mine, what do you know.

Dave had quite the pure physique: his skin was paler than a bunch of Christian snowflakes, he had large emerald eyes, a thin chiseled-nose, puffy cheeks, stalky legs and coiffed blonde hair. His magnanimity was near unmatched by anyone on this Earth: I'm sure he would take Jesus' spot on the cross if he could.

"Nice to see you again, Rick. I say, every time you come 'ere this place gets twice as lively," said a certain Jacob Bradley Howard in his light Brooklyn accent, a no-nonsense person with double the balls of anyone I knew.

He had a nose that was so big I swore it covered a third of his goddamn face, small eyes of light blue, a pure-black haystack for 'hair' and an incredibly athletic build. His muscles could intimidate any of President Hoover's strongmen at a first glance.

"Ey, it's nice to see a friend who blabbers about politics but has the cynical wit to get away with it! You're just gold, Rick," barked the esteemed Jason Mavis Baker in a bit of a mixed Pittsburgh-Queens accent. This guy was probably my closest friend, though I'm sure the other two wouldn't be thrilled to hear me playing favorites. There's always the "Fuck off!" card to nip their feelings in the bud!

His demeanor was an admirable combination of David's witty restraint and Jake's down-to-earth likability. Couple that with a general feeling of kindness towards others and you'd be hard-pressed to want another guy by your side damn near any moment of the day.

He was fixed with brown eyes, silvery locks of hair of fuzzy black, and a physique screaming 'average joe' in your ear. That would be quite rude, though. His ebony skin may have been a turn-off to the moronic supporters of a one Huey Long down in Louisiana, but thankfully racial equality was one of the most admirable qualities of the Syndicalist platform, which held quite the influence in the bar and the surrounding area. Syndie-stalwart Jack Reed had gotten something right, at least.

Sitting down, hollering away my hello's and how-do-you-do's with the ease of charisma emanating in the air, I grinned.

"Ah, shucks, it's like I'm getting ass-kissed thrice, gentlemen! Which, now that I think of it, would be kinda painful. Let's talk, yeah?"

And there it was. My words kicked off a ride of vocal cord ringing and dinging that would make a doorbell blush. Of such memorable conversation to make any long-winded speech seem like a normal Sunday afternoon. Oh, the emotions! Oh, the comedy!

"So…whatcha think of the Syndies?"