Waterloo
by Liz Perkins
Waterloo, a yuppie bar on the corner of 86th and 2nd, was packed with corporate youths loosening their ties, stripping away their jackets and shedding their office personas with each consecutive drink. Alan walked us to the back of the bar where a young and good looking manager was directing the chaos.
“This is Jim Mahar, he’s the manager,” Alan said, “Good friend of mine. You can put your bags back here. I’m going to get behind the bar and make you guys some drinks.”
‘Sounds good to me!” said Aqua.
“And me,” said I.
“What do you guys want?”
“I’ll have a Stella,” I said.
“I’ll have a cosmopolitan,” said Aqua. The Devil jumped behind the bar and got down to business.
As I looked around Waterloo, I felt strangely out of place. Although the early twenty-something crowd was common for me and I should have felt completely at ease, I was strangely unnerved. I was accustomed to seeing young people in jeans and t-shirts, not jackets and ties. The business wear seemed unnatural, restrictive and morbid, like they were dressed for their own funerals. Who were these people? Is this what I would become after finding employment?
“Your drinks, ladies,” Alan said as he handed us our libations and then headed down the bar to service other patrons.
“A toast,” Aqua said.
“A toast,” I said.
Silence.
“Haha, what are we toasting to?” I said.
“I don’t know, I thought you were going to say it,”
“Hahahaha, you were the one who said ‘a toast’!”
“Fine…A toast to toasting!” Aqua exclaimed.
“To toasting!” and we drank our drinks down, fast, and Alan was right there to fill them back up again when we were done.
“I’ll just have water for this one, don’t want to get ahead of myself,” I said. It was only eight o’clock and I knew we had a long night of drinking ahead of us. I wanted to keep my wits about me at the Devil’s lair.
The Devil and Aqua threw back a couple red headed sluts and then Aqua and I hit the dance floor to the sounds of Daft Punk, “One more time! We’re gonna celebrate, oh yeah, all right, don’t stop dancing!” As we busted out some of our signature dance moves, I couldn’t help but notice a dark circle of suits slowly encroaching upon our dance space. Suddenly, one of the collared shirts turned toward us. Jim suddenly materialized behind Aqua and began swinging his hips side to side along with hers.
“Hey girls, are you having a good time?” he asked us.
“Yeah, great time,” Aqua said.
“Alan tells me you guys went to Umass Amherst,” Jim yelled above the drunken calamity.
“Yeah we did.” I said.
“So did I,” he informed us. It was hard for me to believe, he was wearing a suit!
“Oh really? When did you graduate?” Aqua asked.
“2004,” Jim said.
“Jim Mahar…like, as in Mahar auditorium?” I asked.
“Haha yeah, my grandfather,” he replied.
“That’s funny,” Aqua said. “I had a lot of classes in there!”
I glanced over at the bar and noticed the Devil looking up at me as he poured a drink for an attractive blond business woman. When he finished pouring he began to dance behind the bar, all the while looking at me, and then he gave me the move, the move that you do when you want to make the classic impression of a stereotypical preppy prick, he stuck his pointers out like guns gave me the two-finger Harvard salute and I had to laugh out loud because he did not even know he was a walking cliché. Poor little Devil.
“So, is Aqua your real name?” Jim inquired.
“Haha, yes, yes it is,” she replied.
“‘Aqua’ is nothing,” I said, “ask her what her last name is.”
“What’s your last name?”
“Bang,” she said.
“Aqua Bang?!? That’s really your name??” Jim said, disbelievingly.
“That’s really my name,” she replied.
“Are you a porn star?” Jim asked.
Nope, that’s just the name my mother gave me,” she said.
“So you’re a superhero,” Jim stated.
“She’s my hero,” I said with a wink. The three of us kept dancing but I had the feeling I should soon find an excuse to exit. Bang and Mahar seemed intrigued by more than their respective names.
I crossed to the bar. If I was going to walk around making random conversation with strangers I was going to need a little more al-key-haul. When I got to there I saw a girl passing the Devil a dollar bill with a sly look on her face. He looked at it, furrowed his brow, and threw it away in the trash. When he looked up, he saw me and smiled.
“Hey doll, what can I get you?” I could not believe he actually called me “doll”, who did he think he was, Sinatra?
“Hahaha…” I accidentally laughed right in the Devil’s face, “I’ll have a mojito,” Why not live it up while you’re drinking on the Satan’s tab?
“A mo-whato?” he said.
“A mo-hee-toe,” I yelled above the clamor.
“I don’t know how to make that,” he said.
“Ok…how about a highball?” I asked.
“Don’t know that either,” he said.
“What kind of bartender are you?” I asked.
“I’m not here because I’m good at pouring drinks,” the Devil informed me, “I’m here because I know Jim and because I act the way I act.”
“Aha,” I should have known, “then I’ll have a Cape Codder – that’s just vodka and cranberry. Do you think you can handle that?”
“I think I can do that for you,” he said with a smirk.
“Thanks,” I said, smirking right back at him. The Devil handed me my drink. It was getting hot in the bar so I made my way over to the door to get some air and check out the scene on the New York City sidewalk. I made small talk with the giant bouncer at the door who turned out to be an ex pro wrestler. His hand was the size of my head. I bummed a cigarette off of him and as we smoked he talked about life on the mat but my mind (which does not often do what it is supposed to be doing – in this case, listening) began to wander to the city itself.
The borough was sprawled out before me. Twenty one square miles of cement magically cast into gourmet restaurants, fast food joints, museums, exclusive clubs, tenements, churches, crack shacks, bars, designer stores, nail salons, bodegas, strip joints, luxurious apartments, and booming businesses. Someone, long ago, took one look at the island of Manhattan – then covered with lush forests, babbling rivers and refreshing lakes, and thought, “I know how I can make this better. I can make it into a veritable playground for the Devil!” and they did. And I can tell you from personal experience, he really appreciates it.
It was quite an impressive feat. I could feel the city beating beneath me and I watched it from the moon. From conception to present state it spread slowly over the surface of the island of Manhattan (which means “hilly island” in Algonquin) like flesh eating bacteria, swallowing up the natural features of the landscape, branching out, shrinking a little, then growing a little more, pulsating and advancing over the land. The city was more than just a pile of bricks and ego, it was a living organism that chewed up naïve aspiring actresses and spit them out in the dumpster.
But oh, was it fun to watch.
Waterloo, a yuppie bar on the corner of 86th and 2nd, was packed with corporate youths loosening their ties, stripping away their jackets and shedding their office personas with each consecutive drink. Alan walked us to the back of the bar where a young and good looking manager was directing the chaos.
“This is Jim Mahar, he’s the manager,” Alan said, “Good friend of mine. You can put your bags back here. I’m going to get behind the bar and make you guys some drinks.”
‘Sounds good to me!” said Aqua.
“And me,” said I.
“What do you guys want?”
“I’ll have a Stella,” I said.
“I’ll have a cosmopolitan,” said Aqua. The Devil jumped behind the bar and got down to business.
As I looked around Waterloo, I felt strangely out of place. Although the early twenty-something crowd was common for me and I should have felt completely at ease, I was strangely unnerved. I was accustomed to seeing young people in jeans and t-shirts, not jackets and ties. The business wear seemed unnatural, restrictive and morbid, like they were dressed for their own funerals. Who were these people? Is this what I would become after finding employment?
“Your drinks, ladies,” Alan said as he handed us our libations and then headed down the bar to service other patrons.
“A toast,” Aqua said.
“A toast,” I said.
Silence.
“Haha, what are we toasting to?” I said.
“I don’t know, I thought you were going to say it,”
“Hahahaha, you were the one who said ‘a toast’!”
“Fine…A toast to toasting!” Aqua exclaimed.
“To toasting!” and we drank our drinks down, fast, and Alan was right there to fill them back up again when we were done.
“I’ll just have water for this one, don’t want to get ahead of myself,” I said. It was only eight o’clock and I knew we had a long night of drinking ahead of us. I wanted to keep my wits about me at the Devil’s lair.
The Devil and Aqua threw back a couple red headed sluts and then Aqua and I hit the dance floor to the sounds of Daft Punk, “One more time! We’re gonna celebrate, oh yeah, all right, don’t stop dancing!” As we busted out some of our signature dance moves, I couldn’t help but notice a dark circle of suits slowly encroaching upon our dance space. Suddenly, one of the collared shirts turned toward us. Jim suddenly materialized behind Aqua and began swinging his hips side to side along with hers.
“Hey girls, are you having a good time?” he asked us.
“Yeah, great time,” Aqua said.
“Alan tells me you guys went to Umass Amherst,” Jim yelled above the drunken calamity.
“Yeah we did.” I said.
“So did I,” he informed us. It was hard for me to believe, he was wearing a suit!
“Oh really? When did you graduate?” Aqua asked.
“2004,” Jim said.
“Jim Mahar…like, as in Mahar auditorium?” I asked.
“Haha yeah, my grandfather,” he replied.
“That’s funny,” Aqua said. “I had a lot of classes in there!”
I glanced over at the bar and noticed the Devil looking up at me as he poured a drink for an attractive blond business woman. When he finished pouring he began to dance behind the bar, all the while looking at me, and then he gave me the move, the move that you do when you want to make the classic impression of a stereotypical preppy prick, he stuck his pointers out like guns gave me the two-finger Harvard salute and I had to laugh out loud because he did not even know he was a walking cliché. Poor little Devil.
“So, is Aqua your real name?” Jim inquired.
“Haha, yes, yes it is,” she replied.
“‘Aqua’ is nothing,” I said, “ask her what her last name is.”
“What’s your last name?”
“Bang,” she said.
“Aqua Bang?!? That’s really your name??” Jim said, disbelievingly.
“That’s really my name,” she replied.
“Are you a porn star?” Jim asked.
Nope, that’s just the name my mother gave me,” she said.
“So you’re a superhero,” Jim stated.
“She’s my hero,” I said with a wink. The three of us kept dancing but I had the feeling I should soon find an excuse to exit. Bang and Mahar seemed intrigued by more than their respective names.
I crossed to the bar. If I was going to walk around making random conversation with strangers I was going to need a little more al-key-haul. When I got to there I saw a girl passing the Devil a dollar bill with a sly look on her face. He looked at it, furrowed his brow, and threw it away in the trash. When he looked up, he saw me and smiled.
“Hey doll, what can I get you?” I could not believe he actually called me “doll”, who did he think he was, Sinatra?
“Hahaha…” I accidentally laughed right in the Devil’s face, “I’ll have a mojito,” Why not live it up while you’re drinking on the Satan’s tab?
“A mo-whato?” he said.
“A mo-hee-toe,” I yelled above the clamor.
“I don’t know how to make that,” he said.
“Ok…how about a highball?” I asked.
“Don’t know that either,” he said.
“What kind of bartender are you?” I asked.
“I’m not here because I’m good at pouring drinks,” the Devil informed me, “I’m here because I know Jim and because I act the way I act.”
“Aha,” I should have known, “then I’ll have a Cape Codder – that’s just vodka and cranberry. Do you think you can handle that?”
“I think I can do that for you,” he said with a smirk.
“Thanks,” I said, smirking right back at him. The Devil handed me my drink. It was getting hot in the bar so I made my way over to the door to get some air and check out the scene on the New York City sidewalk. I made small talk with the giant bouncer at the door who turned out to be an ex pro wrestler. His hand was the size of my head. I bummed a cigarette off of him and as we smoked he talked about life on the mat but my mind (which does not often do what it is supposed to be doing – in this case, listening) began to wander to the city itself.
The borough was sprawled out before me. Twenty one square miles of cement magically cast into gourmet restaurants, fast food joints, museums, exclusive clubs, tenements, churches, crack shacks, bars, designer stores, nail salons, bodegas, strip joints, luxurious apartments, and booming businesses. Someone, long ago, took one look at the island of Manhattan – then covered with lush forests, babbling rivers and refreshing lakes, and thought, “I know how I can make this better. I can make it into a veritable playground for the Devil!” and they did. And I can tell you from personal experience, he really appreciates it.
It was quite an impressive feat. I could feel the city beating beneath me and I watched it from the moon. From conception to present state it spread slowly over the surface of the island of Manhattan (which means “hilly island” in Algonquin) like flesh eating bacteria, swallowing up the natural features of the landscape, branching out, shrinking a little, then growing a little more, pulsating and advancing over the land. The city was more than just a pile of bricks and ego, it was a living organism that chewed up naïve aspiring actresses and spit them out in the dumpster.
But oh, was it fun to watch.
This entry was posted by Ben Myers, on
Tuesday, October 03, 2006.
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