Lucky Seven in NYC

JAP and I head to Divine to meet Good Guy and Brooklyn. It turns out to be a dark wine bar. We sit at the bar and I study the menu. Dude, what if you just want a simple chardonnay? The wine list is giving me a headache, so I opt for the “alternative” wine, thinking that’s probably appropriate for me, considering I’m a Texas girl in the heart of Manhattan.

From Divine, it’s time to go to Oz. (Insert your own “We’re not in Kansas anymore” joke here.) Oz features comfortable niches along the back wall where we can lounge and drink in comfort. It’s like hanging out in your living room except there are people you don’t know, and someone else is bringing you drinks. Well, in my case, someone else is bringing me drinks. Yay free drinks!

I spy a delicious man wearing a belt buckle with a Longhorn on it. Oh my God! I think he’s my huuuuusband! Apparently his girlfriend doesn’t agree and keeps throwing me dirty looks. I look at JAP and talk to her and pretend not to see the daggers in Girlfriend’s eyes. Ooops. Brooklyn is shaking his head sadly at me. “You’re causing all kinds of trouble.”

“What do you mean?” I ask innocently, adjusting the straps of my new dress – the one that JAP and Contrary agree looks like lingerie….and fabulous on me.

“Beautiful girls like you always cause trouble,” Brooklyn answers.

I shrug and bat my eyelashes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

JAP informs me that Good Guy has called his friend Slickster, who was supposed to meet us out earlier but got tied up with work. “He told him he screwed up because you’re gorgeous and fun, he needs to get his ass down here!”

It’s time to eat. We’ve picked up two more people with our party: Mare and Flirtation. Flirtation decides we’re going to drive to dinner and we pile into his Lexus SUV. He hands me a card with an ad on it for Vitaburst, or some such flavored water drink.

“Tell all your friends!” he says, “It’s going to be in Texas in a few months.”

“Why not now?” I ask, feeling my buzz from the wine and vodka tonics. “We’re thirsty in Texas.”

We speed through the streets of Manhattan, with JAP and Mare singing along to the radio. It’s horrible. JAP not only cannot carry a tune, she doesn’t know the words, so each song sounds like this: “Naaa….ahhhh….ahhhhh….naaa…” Mare turns down the radio after a couple of minutes, citing a slight headache.

We sit down at Stingy Lulu’s for dinner and are served by a transvestite in a tube top. I’m disturbed by the thick hair that he/she has obviously shaved near his/her bellybutton. I fully support his/her right be who he/she wants to be, but I don’t want to see that hair near my food. What will fix this? Ah yes, an Electric Lemonade – a Stingy Lulu’s original.

Slickster catches up with us at Stingy Lulu’s and kisses my cheek in greeting.

“You didn’t kiss anyone else,” JAP points out and there’s no comment from Slickster. He proceeds to capture my heart by ordering garlic mashed potatoes. Mmmmm. A man who recognizes the beauty of the potato product and isn’t afraid of carbs? This could be love.

From there, Slickster and the group think we need to go dancing. Never mind that Flirtation was just falling asleep in his chair. Mental note: no more riding in his vehicle. He’s up for dancing, apparently, and we take off on food this time to a club called Sin Sin.

“Only losers stay downstairs,” Slickster informs us, as we all head directly upstairs when we get to the bar. I’m not a loser! Upstairs is dark and sort of red…all over. It reminds me of an upstairs bar we used to dig in Austin. There’s a little dance floor and Flirtation pulls out his dancing bandanna, affixes it to his head and starts his fancy footwork. I stand at the end of the dance floor and watch. This music sucks.

“Shot?” Slickster asks.

Is that a rhetorical question? We belly up to the bar and drink something that I can’t name. The bartender makes it up when we ask for something in between the lameness of a kamikaze (my shot preference) and the vomit potential of a tequila shot (Slickster’s preference). Weee! Now we’re getting somewhere.

It’s time to move on again, so this time we head up the street to another bar that Slickster promises will have the best bar/music/dancing/drinks ever! It better be, because we keep walking…and walking…and walking. Our party morale is seriously suffering.

“Come on, you guys, look alive! We’re gonna party! Get your swagger on!” he yells to the group. He gets a couple of middle fingers, a complaint about shoes, and me attempting to swagger.

“I don’t know if I have a swagger,” I tell him.

“Sure you do, just saunter down the street like you’re on the runway.”

“Oh, I’m too short to be a model on the runway.”

“Um, that depends on who you talk to,” Slickster says, eyeing the guys on the sidewalk. “I would imagine any one of those guys appreciates your runway walk…”

Finally, we make it to the bar. This one has no name. Or not one I can find anyway. Damn, that walk was so long the shot has worn off, so it’s time for another one. We walk in and the bar is dead. Deader than dead. There are about seven people there, plus our group. This sucks. Slickster and I get another shot and then he wanders off, while I talk to the bartender, Sloppy.

“You’re from Texas? I always wanted to print a shirt that said something about Tex-ass.”

“Do you want some Tex-ass?” I ask him with a grin. Shit, those shots are a bit more potent than I thought.

Sloppy indeed does, and gives me his phone so I can input my number. JAP comes to pick me up. “We’re going to another bar.”

“Here you go,” I hand the phone back to Sloppy. “Another ho for your phone book.”

“But I don’t have a garden.”

JAP and I just stare at him for a moment and then it hits us and we giggle. Outside, we ask directions to the next bar, since the group has moved on. It’s called Mission and it turns out it’s on the next block. Thank God.

They’re playing rap and hip/hop music, and there are indeed some large black men here. I think we’re the only white peeps, but no one seems to mind. Slickster again decides we need a shot, and this one puts me over the edge. And how nice…he’s ordered me a vodka tonic as a lovely chaser. I decide that it’s time to dance.

I have vodka tonic sloshing over the rim of my glass as I dance inside a circle of black men. There’s about six of them. They’re all grinning and cheering me on. I stop dancing and tell one of them: “You’re the one who knows how to dance – you go next!” but he refuses. Another one tells me that I’m a beautiful girl. Then Sloppy shows up and there’s some business about his baseball cap being on backwards. I’m talking but I’m not sure what I’m talking about. We share a kiss at the bar and JAP whisks me through the doors to go home.

I’m trying really hard in the cab to center myself. Once we alight at JAP’s corner, someone suggests a nightcap at the Hairy Monk. Because oh yes, that’s what I need! Another drink! How do you know when you’re really really ripped? You purchase a 10-dollar Red Bull and vodka at 3 a.m. Because that makes sense! There’s a couple at the end of the bar next to me and I proceed to tell them my life story. Because that’s entertainment, people!

Slickster and I crash out on the futon while JAP and Good Guy sleep in her room. In the morning, JAP asks me, “When did you ask for Slickster’s card?”

“What?” I ask, in the throes of a mean hangover. “I didn’t.”

“Well, he left it here for you.”

Indeed the card is on the table next to the door. I think Slickster is in love!

-Shakira 07.11.04