Welcome to the last day of May, and the last day for entries to the Thursday Doors Writing Challenge. As I schedule this post, there are 69 entries into the challenge (not counting this one). That’s almost a 40% increase over last year. The stories, poetry and other creative forms are amazing.
Instead of my normal conversation with the fictional character, David, in response to Linda G. Hill’s Stream of Consciousness Saturday prompt, I thought I’d share another short story. However. Linda and her family all have Covid, so I think it only right to acknowledge her, and wish her and her family all the best.
Your Friday prompt for Stream of Consciousness Saturday is “walk.” Use it any way you’d like. Have fun!
Since my story includes a long walk. I am linking to Linda’s post.
This story is based on a visit to New York City with David Pennington, the namesake of my fictional friend. As I mentioned last month, David Pennington and I were friends and coworkers, albeit distant ones, for over 25 years. He passed away, and I miss him. This story is based on a very interesting evening that took place almost 20 years ago.
We Must Visit My Bar
David and I took AMTRAK 141 to New York’s Penn Station the day before a technology showcase was opening at the Javits Center. We checked into our hotel then, as was our habit when visiting that city, we treated ourselves to an early steak dinner at one of New York City’s many steakhouses. This night, we walked up to Keens Chophouse. Then it was off to a meeting with members of a user group associated with the somewhat obscure programming language, Smalltalk. The group met on the third floor of a commercial building on Ninth Avenue. We signed in at the security station and took the elevator. When the doors opened, we followed the signs. David asked me a question before we entered.
“You’re sure this group will be up for some beers after the meeting? I would have enjoyed another glass of wine with dinner.”
“I’ve never been to this meeting when it didn’t end at the pub.”
David introduced himself to the few people at the meeting who weren’t familiar with him and his products and services. The presentation he was about to give was drawn from the experience of developing a system for the curious little insurance company I worked for. Packed with descriptions of David’s signature code libraries, flow diagrams of the modifications he made for us, and the few redacted screen shots our lawyers agreed to let him include, David’s presentation was the stuff programmers loved to see, and his English accent softened the edge of the hard facts and sharp algorithms.
Comments and questions did abound throughout the hour, and the room burst into grateful acceptance of David’s closing remarks.
“I’ve heard that this group usually adjourns to an Irish Pub. I’d love to continue this conversation over a few pints and get to know you all a little better.”
The entire group thanked David for the offer, but only eight of us walked to the pup which was kitty-corner to the building in which our meeting was held. Inside, the waitress directed us to the only table large enough for our group. Once seated, David placed a substantial amount of U.S. currency on the table in a disorganized pile and addressed himself to the waitress.
“Please take enough to cover each round from the pile.”
I gave him a sideways glance.
“Right. My friend is reminding me that you tip barmaids in this country—please take the customary amount for that as well. I’d ask him to take care of that, but he’s not that good at maths.” Then, he addressed the men gathered around the table. “Gentlemen, I’m buying beer until that pile is gone. Then it’s up to you.”
Paval Resnik objected. “I promised this group last month that I would buy the first round tonight.”
“Well, you’ll have to wait until next month, won’t you? That or until the pile is gone.” David offered in a short unyielding reply.
The orders were placed; the beers were delivered and the discussion drifted from questions particular to David’s presentation to esoteric topics only the assembled gathering of nerds would find interesting. Everyone was enjoying themselves, save for Paval who nurtured a grudge throughout the evening.
One by one, people excused themselves from the festivities until only David, me, Paval and the president of the User Group remained. The waitress returned with one last diminished round and David encouraged her to take the remaining cash. Paval expressed his displeasure with the way the evening had turned out.
“I hoped I would be purchasing the last round.”
“Yeah, yeah, well what else could you expect? Then again, you’ll be here next month, so you can try again. I’ll be back in Suffolk, and I won’t be able to spoil your fun.”
“No. After we leave here, we must go to my bar. I will buy the drinks there.”
The User Group President said this round would be his last. David, seeing how important the act of buying him a beer was to Paval, agreed—conditionally.
“As long as your bar is between here and our hotel, we can stop. It’s been a long day, and I want to be walking back toward a comfortable bed.”
Pavel explained where his bar was, and I realized that it was one block west and two blocks south of our hotel. I told David the location met his condition.
The portion of Ninth Avenue where Pavel’s bar was located was considerably less glamorous than the gleaming Times Square area one block to the east. Bars, bodegas and small shops dotted the street, and David and I were both taken aback when Paval turned and swung the artfully painted door open and ushered us inside. David observed that the sole window in the facade had been blacked out.
“You sure this is a bar? It looks more like one of the flea pits that used to be all over London.”
Pavel scowled as he held the door for us. We stepped to the side of the entrance hoping Pavel would lead the way. The way people were looking at us, we didn’t exactly feel welcome.
The bar was dark and eerily quiet. The rumble of private conversations hummed like a curious form of white noise in the background as the three of us stepped up to the bar. The bartender ignored David and me and shot a menacing glare at Paval. A conversation in some Eastern European language ensued, and the bartender opened and placed three bottles of Zywiec on the bar. The Polish lager was the first thing David and I were familiar with.
“A good beer to end the evening with,” David noted as he tipped his bottle toward Pavel.
I was at the right side of the trio, and the man to my right nodded to me—the only sign that we might be accepted in what was obviously more of a private club than a public bar.
I excused myself to the Men’s room. One never knows what passes for a restroom in a small bar. This one had been clumsily tucked into the space under a set of stairs that was boxed in, and actually part of the adjoining space. No stairs were visible in the bar. The room was dimly lit, and the walls were painted with a generous coat of dark green enamel into which an abundance of graffiti had been scraped. Most of the words were in a language I didn’t understand, but the wall was also decorated with pentagrams and other satanic symbols, including a well-defined goat’s head. I finished my business and opted to carry my own germs out with me rather than touch the sink and a towel that hung from the horn of a goat head hook.
When I returned, David asked me if I had found the Men’s room. I warned him, and suggested he take a few bar napkins with him. As he walked away, the man standing at my right leaned in closer to share a simple message.
“You should not have come here, my friend.”
David returned to the bar and tried to make small talk with Paval. His English accent was now conspicuous and the bartender and the man to my right both took notice, as did several men in the party to Pavel’s left. It was the first time I’d ever seen Americans who weren’t charmed by a British accent. The man at my right lowered his eyebrow and, without so much as a word spoken, reiterated his earlier comment.
Paval spoke again to the bartender in the accepted language of the bar. The banter was less than cordial, but the bartender placed three more beers on the bar. Paval excused himself and stepped toward a table across from the Men’s room. David turned sharply to me and in what might be described as a stage whisper shared his simple message:
“Let’s get the f**k out of here!”
The man at my right nodded in approval and reached for the new beer that had been placed in front of me. I waved my hand in agreement.
We squeezed our way through the thick crowd and pushed the painted door open. Ninth Avenue seemed brighter than before, and while still a bit scary for the average tourist, significantly less dangerous than the room we had left. I hailed a cab that had just rounded the corner. David and I slipped in the back.
The cabbie asked where we were going.
“Marriott Marquis,” I blurted out rather excitedly.
“The Marquis? What the f**k? The Marquis is right over there” pointing over his left shoulder through the open driver’s side window.
“Did we ask you for a bloody geography lesson?” David snapped. “If you know where it is, you should be able to take us there.”
I caught a glimpse of the painted door as it was opening.
“Driver, if you don’t mind, we are in a hurry.”
The lobby of the Marriott Marquis is on the seventh floor and as bright and busy as any place in Times Square. David and I took comfort in the fact that neither of us had mentioned where we were staying to anyone in the group. David pointed to a restaurant just past the gift shop.
“One more round before we turn in?”
I smiled in agreement.
The next morning, we decided to walk to the Javits Center. Our direction was generally to the west and south. As we emerged onto ninth avenue, we decided to stay on the opposite side from the bar. We scanned all the doors, but didn’t see any with the painted pattern we remembered. Instead, the door was covered with brown paper. We crossed the street in the middle of the block. We were south of the door but close enough to make out the same symbols we had seen in the Men’s room.
“We’re taking a cab back to the hotel, right?”
I do have a few photos today, too.
No Facilities 
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