The only thing that seems to change is the music.
It's a strange world in these bars: on a normal night one is bound to encounter either elation or bitterness from the old generation; the few members of the younger crowd, meanwhile, seem to be doing nothing more than entertaining themselves by conversing with either the group they came in with or their prospective bedmate(s) for the night. The disparities of these two worlds can be alarming sometimes, especially considering how exclusive most of the latter are when it comes to just about anything.
I continue to be perceived as an outsider by young and old alike; and I cannot help but feel as though they think I am studying them, my typically pensive demeanor being mistaken for a type of curiosity that is too cerebral and, therefore, too invasive. I can understand where their apprehension comes from. I know I have referred to myself as something of an anomaly in the majority of the bars that I have visited, and this description never ceases to be appropriate. In the blue-collar bars, I am seen as a snob; in the hipper regions, I lack some ornamentation or something because they all seem to stare to me with vapid contempt. So I straddle the line, the line between the intellectual and the working classes, and I know that I will now have to decide which one of these cities I will subsequently call home. Perhaps this why some who move here remain tourists for years, if not decades.
There is a New York of celebrities and models, artists and critics. Among them one is liable to find an inflated sense of importance and a pretension of culture. But this caricature of New York rings true only when one excludes the vast majority of people who only seek to work, love, and socialize. It is not as though the people of this group are devoid of culture or intelligence; it's just that most don't think themselves destined for any type of greatness as defined by fame or international renown. That familiar sense of entitlement among the intelligentsia and the upper class is acknowledged as nothing more than a vain dream to get you through the drudgery of the day. In the end, it is nothing more than an idle fantasy. As Janiqua Williams, a twenty-four-year-old MTA worker born and raised in Wycoff Gardens (with those gray eyes that can melt just about any kolpophile with a pulse), who will soon have a B.A. from Baruch in Marketing and Finance, told me as we sat at the bar of the Brooklyn Inn: “I just wannabe able to own a house and provide for my baby girl, know what I'm sayin'. Sure, I got dreams — I got lots'a dreams. But, you know, I am a realist. I know what I gotsta' do to get ahead, know what I'm sayin'.” She spoke what used to be called Ebonics, an apocopic language derived from English that perhaps upset some black people because it essentially called itself the black language, which I am sure a lot of Koisan and Bantu speakers found fucking ridiculous.
“So you probably think I'm crazy for doing something like this,” I said as I reached for my beer. Cymande played in the background — it had been preceded by Lee Morgan, Wilco, the Zombies and Tribe. “That I'm just some stupid white kid out pissing away his time.”