by Paul von Zielbauer
(Continued from last week’s blog post)
So I’m sitting at Denny’s Steak Pub – an island of working-class Caucasians floating in a sea of beer, surrounded by working-class South Asian immigrants, in Brooklyn’s Kensington neighborhood. The kind of place that can’t be bothered to change its sign outside even though it hasn’t served steak or any other food since “the 1980s,” according to the bartender, who appeared to be speaking from first-hand knowledge. The kind of place whose TV set, behind the bar, showed ghost-like hockey players skating across its screen, thanks to a picture tube that also harked back to the Reagan years. In short, the kind of place where everybody knows your name…except mine.
illustration: Graham Smith's "Survive the Dive 2"
“Who dafucks dis guy?” said the extra-large figure behind me, bumping my chair. I hunched over my lamb gyro on the bar and gave him a quick glance. The man bellies up to the bar – quite literally, as his pear-shaped body is theatrically large – and looks at me. Then he claps me on the shoulder.
“How ya doin?” I said to him, firmly but friendly, with a mouthful of lamb from the joint next door. Friendly but firmly, because when you’re the only non-hoodie in Brooklyn bar, you gotta meet the inherent challenge of “Who dafucks dis guy” without a) looking like an idiot tough guy or b) showing undue frailty in a bar full of drinking buddies.
The large man – tall, white, 50ish, glasses – offered his enormous right hand, a catcher’s mitt of a hand; we’re talking a Christmas ham of an hand. Which I accepted with a newcomer’s nod.
“I’m just kiddin’ ya!” the guy said, leaning close enough to smell the bite of Maker’s Mark on his breath. Another clap on the shoulder. “What’s ya name?”
“Paul,” I said, shouting in a friendly voice, without being sure why.
“Paul, huh?” The man said. As if “Paul” was perhaps code for a) wandering preacher man or a b) gay cruiser. “Where you from?”
“Well, I live in California now, but I’m in Brooklyn because I’m heading up to the Adirondacks, upstate.”
“Adirondacks?” the large man repeated to the bartender, Jimmy, who shrugged and nodded at the same time – a Brooklyn way of saying, “not bad” and “whatever” all in one gesture. “Whaddya doin’ there?” the big guy asked me.
“Scouting a new expedition for this company I run. We create expeditions that include an ass-kicking adventure and a volunteer project that we do for a local community in need.”
“Dat’s amazing,” the guy declaimed. “Jimmy, didja here that?”
Jimmy shrugged & nodded: Whatever.
“So you must be in pretty good shape, then, uh?” said my extra-large new friend. “You some kinda mountain climber?”
My turn to shrug. “Not really.”
At this point, I wanted to eat my dinner out of my styrofoam container and drink my Stella and watch what remained of the Rangers playoff game against the Washington Capitals.
“That’s really cool,” the big man said, not really pulling his whiskey glazed eyes from me. “I mean, I could never do that,” he added, gesturing one of his mitts toward the girth. “I’m not in shape!”
My turn to smile & shrug. Whatever.
He wandered off to talk with someone near the pool table. Jimmy the bartender said the guy had been there since 11am, when his overnight shift ended – doing what? I asked; Jimmy didn’t know – and was on a familiar bender.
To my left, a bald older man in glasses was arguing tax policy with an inebriated middle-aged woman. A few barstools to the right, a young guy with a trendy Brooklynesque beard was commiserating about how good the Miami Heat were compared to the punchless Knicks.
This place was a classic. I felt the spirit of Charles Bukowski blow in from the sidewalk. The Rangers lost. I ordered a second and final beer.
Tomorrow I’d drive north, into the Adirondacks wilderness, and explore the other side of New York State.
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