October 1999

A Saturday Night in New York City...

The Drake Hotel on Park Avenue:

I hadn't noticed that the other lonely girl was drunk until she returned with three middle-aged men with plummy British accents.

They sat down near me and she opened her mouth, letting out a little-girl husky slur. "Whazz your name again?" She addressed the most attentive of the Brits, a reasonably handsome fellow with closely cropped hair.

"Kevin", he replied, leaning into the bar and summoning the barman. "I'll have a lime and lemon please," he said.

The girl toppled her body forward a bit and widened her dewy, drunk eyes. "One for me as well", she said.

"You do realize that it's a nonalcoholic drink." His voice was a little pointed, toned with a rich northern English accent.

"Ah, thazz OK," she replied, one hand absentmindedly checking the state of her updo. She really was beautiful, I thought, and exceedingly stylish, casually dressed in a long black skirt and a sleeveless blue top patterned like a bandanna. Her skin was a light mocha, her hair impeccably swept up, and her face soft and pretty. And she was a lush.

"Why dontcha drink?" She queried Kevin.

He smiled. "Oh, it's dreadful stuff. I've seen what drinking does to my friends."

"Izz not that bad," she responded.

I thought it was quite unfair that he was still sober, and she was in a state that would make no sense to sober people.

"How about drugs?" She said.

"Oh, none of that either," he said.

"I'm off of drugs," she announced, somewhat triumphantly, briefly piquing the interest of the two others, who were comparing photographs of their families.

"That's good," said Kevin. "Say, should we go to that bar?"

She bobbled her head in unenthusiastic agreement. "Sure", she paused. "At least I'm off of the marijuana. But I still like cocaine. Izz too much fun."

Kevin started. "Cocaine? That's not good for you."

"Sure it is," she slurred, her almond-shaped fawn eyes flickering with annoyance. "It never hurt anyone."

"I don't think so," he said. "I've a friend at home who's a coke addict. He's a sad state."

"I didn't say for your friend," she replied, pointing at her chest. "I meant for me."

He slowly shook his head but quieted, possibly recalling one of the golden rules of the bar-- don't argue with a drunk.

I filled out the chit for my red wine-- ten dollars a glass (highway robbery!)-- and charged it to my room and then slid off the barstool. It was Saturday night in New York City and I was bored.