I clock out of Saks at 7:08, looking forward to an evening of tequila and solitude. After discovering an American dive bar near my house, my Thursday night routine took one year to perfect. I'd revisit the bar until I became a regular and made enough friends to distract me from unsettling emotions. My parents were home all the time and often contributed to my stress, forcing me to develop an escapist mentality.
I had just ended a vital friendship and found it tacky to drink alone at chic and tasteful bars where I could run into individuals I had no desire to fake conversation with. Paradise Alley was the perfect place to let loose without judgment. I could slug Casamigos without being cut off, flirt with DL men, and write about what I couldn't express verbally. For a year, I called this bar home. Little did I know my drunk days at my favorite bar were numbered.
One recent Saturday, I headed to Paradise after a long day and saw a young woman behind the bar—unusual. She was polished and assertive, unlike the typical Paradise bartender. "Where is Eddie?" I ask. "Your friend Ed, whatever his name is, is gone." "I'm here Saturdays and Sundays," I’m Marsi," she said with confidence. Marsi then informs me that the bar I've been relying on for cheap drinks every Thursday night has been sold. I was devastated, yet in denial, because everything looked the same except for the bartender.
I returned Tuesday to scope out the vibe, and I noticed the aesthetic was rapidly altered as my drink was poured into a glass instead of a red Solo cup. I could barely taste the liquor as the chatty woman used a light hand compared to my favorite bartender, Arty. I asked Sal—one of the guys who's been frequenting the bar for over ten years—what was happening. He said Paradise is being re-vamped, even the clientele. Nonetheless, Sal said we could still look forward to seeing Arty on Thursdays if all was uncertain.
Last night, I saw more than just Arty. I saw people who worked at Bourbon Street, a bar I would go to every weekend with my best friend during our senior year of college.
Upon entering Paradise, I was surprised by a familiar face, only to see the entire Bourbon Street staff waltz in one after the next. I felt uncomfortable since these people had seen me fucked up before. It was evident the ownership had changed, and I would no longer have access to the privileges I was accustomed to.
Mortification doesn't begin to describe the feeling that ran through me when confronting an army of past acquaintances. I would say the encounters were awkward and unexpected. Thankfully, I was lustrous in a way that emphasized my composure. My deep green sweater, white pants, and faux leather boots worked together to make sure I looked the part. If I'm going to run into people while drinking alone at a dive bar, the least I could do is look decent.
It's disheartening to know my Thursday nights will never be the same. Paradise Alley was where I'd numb my feelings, interact with uncanny personalities, and escape the eeriness of being isolated until it felt good. I could sob at the bar without anyone asking, "What's wrong?" and bum a smoke on the wooden patio when the AC would chill my blood faster than the tequila.
I'll miss pretending to know how to play pool while taking frozen shots of blackberry schnapps. No more doing my makeup in a bathroom that reeks of piss or being a therapist to the local drunks. No more devouring Chinese food at 2 am while twirling my head to 80s music. I can also kiss the convenience goodbye since there's no other bar within walking distance of my apartment.
Dive Bars hold a special place in the hearts of those who seek a drink behind closed doors.
The abduction of my local bar forces me to 1. deal with people I know but do not talk to or 2. Search for another bar. Based on last night's events, I'll proceed with option 2.
Though I won't miss many things about Paradise Alley, I will miss gossiping with Arty. I'll forever appreciate the ear he lent me when it felt like the world had gone deaf.
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