You’re Never Better Than Your Neighborhood Bar
Trivia night, addicts, and glasses that never empty keep me coming back for more
You’re never better than your neighborhood bar, and mine was full of addicts. Alcohol, mostly, but opioids, too. They were the kind of men (and they were almost always men) who knew all about injections and ingestions, and were willing to pay the price. They were tougher, smarter, and softer than I was.
But we had one thing in common: obsession.
Mother May I is a bar in the Bushwick neighborhood of Brooklyn, New York. Its owners oversee the formation of a back-porch igloo at Christmas. They list it on Airbnb for the very reasonable price of only $60 a night. There is no heat, and no running water, but the ad promises unlimited PBRs, brunch, and the use of the downstairs bathrooms.
Kate, who lives two blocks away in a refurbished apartment, says we should consider renting it, because of “what we could save on booze alone.”
We take everyone to “Mother’s,” as it's called locally; roommates, pets, parents. Nobody loves it like we do: stupidly, and with too many stories. That same winter, I drag my old high school friend to Brooklyn from New Jersey, after her wife serves her with divorce papers. “Dress like you’re a 2,000-year-old…
