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I glance at my car and say goodbye just in case I don’t find it upon my return. Crina takes my hand and confidently leads toward the narrow, dark sage-colored storefront of the café. Can’t say I’m impressed. It looks like any other seedy hole-in-the-wall downtown club. People mill outside, talking loudly, vaping, or toking on spliffs. I give the crowd a dubious look as I pass by. With as many edibles as we sell, it’s surprising people still smoke the old-fashioned way.
Taking Crina’s elbow, I sweep her to my other side, sidestepping a dude nodding off on the curb of the sidewalk.
And Crina came here alone?
Jesus Christ.
I feel a migraine coming on.
I pull the door open, grateful to get her off the street, even if it’s inside a dump like this. Of course, the first thing I see when I walk in is a bar on my left. Is this more bar than café? Is this just a place to drink, or are they serious about this poetry thing?
The place is basic, not clean, and crowded. To the right of the bar is a flight of steep black stairs that leads up to a black door. Each step is painted with a verse from a Pablo Neruda poem. How do I know? Because his name is written on the bottom step. Otherwise, the name sure as hell wouldn’t ring a bell. I’m guessing he’s a famous poet.
Crina bounces on the balls of her feet and drags me through the throng of people hugging the bar into a larger space. Small round tables are tightly packed together, hitting the edge of the small stage. The tables are covered with white linen tablecloths topped with little votive candles in the center.
Hanging from the ceiling is a chandelier that feels out of place and yet just right. At the far wall a tiny stage is dwarfed by a huge gray and white mural of a rococo Parisian apartment. It’s like a bunch of styles were slapped together at random. Down-and-dirty downtown bar, jazz club, and antique Parisian apartment. I take it all in, marveling at the oddness of it. It’s not like anything I’ve ever seen before.
Crina points to the far corner at the last empty table. “Oh, oh, there’s a table!” She yanks me through the crowd, unrepentant and unstoppable.
That’s my girl.
We reach the table a fraction of a second before another couple. Crina snatches a chair and glides right into it. Linking her fingers over the table proprietarily, she blinks up at them innocently, her mouth in a surprised O as if she hadn’t just beat them to the table. With a smug grin, I sit beside her and we stare the other couple down until they move on. The moment they turn away in defeat, she grabs the sleeve of my shirt and explodes into giggles.
“Oh my God, we’re awful,” she exclaims once she comes back up for air.
“No, we got here first. Were we just supposed to give it up for no reason? They should’ve been faster. Foreigners,” I retort indignantly.
“Um, I’m pretty sure they’re American.”
“I meant they were no New Yorkers. This is New York City. If you don’t know how to hustle for a seat in a bar or on the subway, then you don’t deserve it. Keep standing, motherfucker,” I grumble at the backs of the offending couple.
Crina shakes her head at me. “And they say you’re the easygoing one.” She leans toward me. “You’re a savage.”
I shoot her a mock-bland stare, dropping my eyelids so my eyes are hooded. My chest tightens at seeing the old Chuckie back with her quick banter. She was so much fun, back in the day. We used to get into all kinds of scrapes. It feels so good to know that some things haven’t changed between us. “Not a savage. Just a New Yorker. We have a reputation of being rude, but we’re not rude. We just know what we want and we go after it.”
A smile lingers on her lips as she dismisses the underlying message of my comment and replies carefully, “We make a pretty good team.”
“That was never our problem, Crina.”
She laughs. “I don’t know about that…”
“If you’re talking of the soccer try-outs, you would’ve made it on the team if we’d been united in our goal.” I gulp. “But I was out of it.”
Her eyes grow sad, glints of green and blue overtaking the chestnut brown as it always does when she gets emotional. I can tell, even in the mood lighting of the club.
“I never played soccer again.”
“Perhaps not, but you found this.” I sweep my hand open and make a point of looking around. “And this … is amazing. You would’ve never found it otherwise.”
She follows my gaze as I take in the laughing, festive crowd. Each table is packed with as many people as can fit. Waiters and waitresses zip around and between tables like manic bees, joking with their customers and one another. I might not have thought highly of the beat-up storefront or the dive bar right at the entrance, but no one could deny the buzz and energy of this place.
“And you found it on your own,” I go on. “A high school girl, coming here alone. You weren’t intimidated by the crowds, by the people, by the fact that it’s in the dead of night.” I turn my gaze back on her. “That’s impressive.” I pause, a fierce pride spreading though my chest. “You’re fearless, Crina. You always were.”
“I thought you called it impulsive.”
“It’s the flip side of the same quality. There’s a virtue and a flaw for every trait, but this is definitely a positive.”
Her brows jump at the compliment.
