I met Erick for dinner at In Vino a couple of weeks ago. I hardly recognized him because I hadn't seen him in well over a year, and he had grown a "K" at the end of his name, which his mother and I wouldn't have considered for one second. We discussed serious matters of family, health and money (or lack thereof), and then we talked about our economically productive lives. Such as they are.
Erick/Eric's real vocation is heading up a neo-punk band called Golden Error. One of their popular ditties is "Fucking in the Fitting Room." Whatever you may think of the music (Eric writes the lyrics and...sings), I wholeheartedly wish him success. My dream is that he will support me in a not-too-abusive nursing home some day.
To keep body and soul together, Eric works in the food-and-beverage-service industry, of late most often as a bartender. He was at Employees Only on Hudson Street in the West Village after a couple of years. Now he works at Dark Room on the Lower East Side -- on Ludlow Street just down the block from Katz's Deli! He has many rollicking tales of the high life in the big city.
Eric says Dark Room is one of those places that is relatively cool on weeknights with lots of LES bohemians and NYU students and less cool but more remunerative on weekends, when the B&Ts (bridge and tunnel crowd) pours in from New Jersey and Long Island. This group is young, rich and senseless, and they spend money like water. They're also obnoxious. Eric told me of one incident where the customer didn't think the bartender (Eric) was moving fast enough on his order. The joint was packed. The guy started yelling at Eric, "Hey you fucking asshole, where's my fucking drink," etc. At which point young Mr. Hughes pushes the guy off the stool, then runs round the bar to wale on him sprawled on the floor. The bouncers toss the guy out and laugh when he screams from the street, "Come out here, you punks," etc., etc. The guy eventually stumbled away, ears stinging with the sounds of much derisive laughter.
One of my favorite tales concerns Kiefer Sutherland, aka "Jack Bauer" on 24. One night he walked into Employees Only very late, already drunk, and managed to be served a couple of drinks. He stood up on the bar and sang, then fell off. The staff told him to go home, but he went outside and was too fuddled to hail a cab. They took him back inside and, though it was closing time, tried to sober him up a bit. "Where do you live?"
"I dunno."
Finally they discovered his address. But he couldn't stand up to go outside and hail the cab, so one of the staff did and took him home in the dawn's early light. I just hope Kiefer paid him back.
Good times, everybody, good times.
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