Bushwick Hipsters

Last night I went to a bar in Bushwick. Not my typical Friday night destination, but I was enjoying my friends’ company and went along for the adventure. (At 34, leaving my five-block radius is wild. I’m exhausted.)

The bar looked like The Owl in Chicago’s Logan Square. Everyone was dressed like it was 2007/1991. For a second, I missed the tamale guy. It felt weird — not my scene anymore — but also kind of comforting. There was a time I was that girl: wearing something ill-fitting from a thrift store, drinking the cheapest beer in the building.

I guess I’m still her, just without the black box dye or the need to update my MySpace page (er, Instagram) with melodramatic quotes to express myself. Sometimes when people I’ve met recently talk shit about Bushwick hipsters, I laugh nervously and wonder how I tricked anyone into thinking I’m normal. Or mainstream. Or whatever.

Around midnight, the place — Birdy’s — started to get packed. I was sitting at the bar, which meant I became a human speed bump for people ordering drinks. Nature of the stool.

Suddenly, I feel my pants get wet.

I look up. A tall guy in his mid-20s, wearing a monochromatic baggy trench coat and expensive-looking glasses (not Warby Parker, definitely ten times the cost), is tipping his Tecate over me as he bends to pay the bartender.

He steps back. The corner of my leather bag is stained. My right thigh is soaked.

I say, “Dude, you just spilled half your beer on me.”

He glances at the can and replies, “Well, it couldn’t have been half — most of it’s still in here.”

I point at the damage and ask — nicely — for a napkin.

His response? “Get it yourself. You’re closer to the bar.”

Cool.

I roll my eyes and let it go.

But nope.

After asking five more times, he finally hands me some napkins, then adds a jab about ruining my “priceless True Religion jeans.”

TRUE. FUCKING. RELIGION.

That’s when I snapped. There was a time when adults told me I’d never get a real job because of my nose ring — and now this tote-carrying liberal arts bro, who probably majored in Feminist Studies and minored in Ceramics at his $85k-a-year school, is reducing me to a Meatpacking Basic because I’m not wearing stonewashed mom jeans?

I channeled pre-therapy Monica circa 2009: slapped the beer out of his hand, flipped him off, and told him to go back to the APC clearance rack. Not my best comeback — but again, exhausted.

He yelled that I owed him a new beer. His girlfriend stood behind him, rubbing his back like a therapy dog, grinning and repeating, “Don’t give him the finger.”

So we left.

I called an Uber back to the West Village. The car that pulled up? A massive, black suburban with tinted windows. And I thought, Shit. Maybe I’m not a hipster anymore. Maybe I’m a sellout. Who am I? Do I still read Pitchfork? Is Pitchfork still a thing?

This morning, I let in my cleaning lady, booked a barre class, and realized: I am who I am.

And that guy can still go fuck himself.