Burgers & Beer
On one of my last evenings in New York, I met a friend for a drink. However, I had decided not to drink for a few weeks so instead, I drank a ginger ale (my idea of a good time I suppose when I’m off the sauce) and ate a pile of mediocre wings. There were two different basketball games on the televisions. The Knicks and the Nets were both playing, not one another though. I hadn’t even known there were multiple teams in New York. First the Nets were the New Jersey Americans, then the New York Nets, then the New Jersey Nets…and now the Brooklyn Nets. Poor New Jersey. If they just had one good city, maybe they would be something of a state. (Jersey City doesn’t count. It may as well be a borough).
The bar was on the Lower East Side and was quite possibly one of the loudest bars I’ve been to in the last decade. The DJ was rocking some techno, a word that has gone out of style along with the music, and maskless sports fans continued piling in. It was “nut-to-butt” in there as the kids say. I stayed until the third quarter, hustled back to Queens in the rain, and had one of my last great sleeps. The next day, I arrived at the airport, considered the amount of time before my flight left for New Mexico, and decided a martini was in order.
It had been cold and rainy all day again, which is only good when you’re traveling since you can wear more clothing and pack less. I sat and ate overpriced beef jerky and drank sparkling water, wearing more clothes than I needed. I had been thinking that morning that I “actually prefer being in my head all day long,” which is only true when those thoughts are pleasant. (I’ve been accused, accurately of course, by many far and wide, that I’m stuck in my head.) By the time I got through security and realized I had over an hour, ‘to drink or not to drink a martini’ at the airport was now stuck in my head and me along with it so I called my friend Ben to complain. Needless to say, I woke with a screaming headache halfway through my flight as my tolerance had dropped considerably the last couple of weeks. Never mind how much I paid for a martini at an airport bar.
The loose plan, and apparently way too loose, had been to stay off the booze through the monastery experience in northern New Mexico where I was headed. Instead, I drank somewhat regularly and more or less ate meat wherever I could find it. According to my notes, the plan went as follows: “While I’m here at the monastery, cut out caffeine, alcohol (always easier to do without caffeine), rest well, read, hit the hot springs, work, exercise here and there, and just take it fucking easy.” I did in fact hit the hot springs.
Determining just how exhausted I look.
When I arrived at the Zen retreat center, I was tired from...I don’t even know what anymore. Life had made me tired. A few people at the monastery told me several times per day that I looked exhausted, something that no one wants to hear. I figured it was probably just from too much coffee, too much booze, too much staring at screens, too little sleep, and too little passion for life. All the normal things that run us down I suppose.
On one of the first evenings, I spoke with an old monastery friend over a few cups of sake. She had been ordained in the last couple of years and beyond her shaved head, there was a noticeable change about her. Her eyes were bright and hypnotic, which meant that she knew everything and I, nothing. Her years of spiritual fortitude had paid off. We drank, she talked, I listened. I complained eventually about my caffeine and alcohol usage and she laughed at me. “You remind me of Elvis. He had to take pills to stay awake, and pills to sleep. Yours is in liquid version but it’s the same idea.” That meant something to me until the next evening when I forgot all about it when it was our day off from monastic duties that, let’s be honest, I rarely participated in anyhow.
The next afternoon, I went in the hot springs several times and afterwards, walked to the neighboring restaurant for some meat and beer. Thirty-four Harley riders (I counted them) pulled up to a line of empty parking spaces half a block away from the restaurant and backed in. The restaurant had been understaffed since COVID so I ran to beat the bike crowd. I hopped onto a stool at the bar and soon after, the bikers filed in. I already had a beer in hand and searched for a menu, however, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and realized, as Roger Sterling would say, that my face looked like a bag of walnuts from what could have only been lack of sleep and too much booze.
The bikers surrounded the bar in a matter of seconds. I was able to get a closer look at each of them with their beer bellies, thinning hair, red noses, and to in fact determine that some were younger than me. Everyone seems to be half or double my age now. The leader of the pack wore his sunglasses on the back of his red neck. He pulled his t-shirt at the chest to minimize the appearance of his man-boobs. They were glorious boobs. I ordered a burger, another beer, and drank off my insecurities and realized I had found my people, not at the monastery, but once again in the dimly lit taverns where Elvis would have been. If you’re ugly, go where the lights are low.
