Last night I went to a bar in Bushwick. Not my typical destination on a Friday night but I was very much enjoying my friends’ company so I went along for the adventure. (Because, honestly, at 34, leaving the confines of my 5 block radius is wild to me. I’m exhausted.)
We get to the bar and it looked like The Owl in Logan square and everyone was dressed like it was 2007/1991. For a second, I missed the tamale guy. It felt weird because it wasn’t my scene but also comfortable because there was a time in my life where I was “that girl” wearing something ill-fitting from the thrift store, drinking the cheapest beer I could find. I’m actually still that girl I just realized I don’t need to dye my hair black or update my myspace page (er, Instagram) with mellow dramatic quotes to express myself anymore. Sometimes when people that haven’t know me for long refer to Bushwick hipsters in a rude way I laugh nervously and wonder how I tricked people into thinking I’m sort of normal. Or, mainstream. Or, whatever.
Around midnight the place, Birdy’s, was starting to get packed. I was sitting in a seat at a bar so I ended up being a throughway for people buying drinks – the nature of having a bar seat on a Friday night. All of a sudden I feel my pants get wet. I look up and see a tall guy in his mid-twenties, wearing some sort of monochromatic baggy trench coat outfit and glasses that could’ve passed for Warby Parker but were definitely not and 10 times more expensive. His Tecate can was tipped over in his hand as he bent over me paying for his drink.
When he stepped back, I noticed that a large corner of my leather bag was stained and my entire right thigh soaked.
So, I looked at him and said, “dude, you just spilled half your beer on me.” to which he responded, “well, it couldn’t have been half because most of it is still in the can.”
I pointed at the visible stains and asked him nicely to hand me a napkin. So, he says, “get it yourself, you’re closer to the bar than I am.”
All I wanted was a simple acknowledgement or an “oh, sorry about that.” :::hands me napkin::: I roll my eyes and then forget it happened.
He finally gave me some napkins after I asked 5 more times and proceeded to be a dick by saying something along the lines of ruining my priceless True Religion jeans. TRUE FUCKING RELIGION. That’s when I actually lost my shit. There was a time in my life when adults told me I’d never get a real job because I had my nose pierced now some fucking guy carrying a tote bag who probably majored in Feminist studies and minored in ceramics at his $85,000 a year liberal arts school was relegating me to being some bro-chick that belonged in Meatpacking because I wasn’t wearing stonewashed mom jeans.
I pulled a pre-therapy Monica circa 2009 and slapped the beer can out of his hand, gave him the middle finger, and told him to go back to the APC clearance store. It wasn’t even a good come back but as mentioned, I’m exhausted.
He yelled back, telling me I better buy him a new beer, all the while his girlfriend stood there rubbing his back, smiling ear to ear while she repeated, “don’t give him the finger.”
Soon after, we left the bar. I ordered my uber back to west village and of all the cars that could have come it was a gigantic black suburban with tinted windows. I was like, “shit, maybe I’m not a hipster anymore. I’m a total sellout. Who am I? I need to read a pitchfork review right now. Is pitchfork still a thing?”
Then I woke up this morning, let my cleaning lady in and booked a barre class and decided I am who I am and that guy can still go fuck himself.