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Archival Abby
Abby's Bio
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Downtown Beirut
It was The Best Bar in the World!
Whether I
was slinging beer or imbibing, Downtown Beirut was the definitive
transcendent dive bar experience. It was dark and narrow and dirty, and
consistently awarded Best Jukebox in local polls, artfully blending
Petula Clark with the Sex Pistols, Flipper and Frank Sinatra. Nothing
would warm my heart more than a rousing round of The Pogues' "Fairytale
of New York," with all in attendance singing along at the tops of their
lungs. Hey, we were shrieking "Bohemian Rhapsody" way before Wayne and
Garth brought in back into vogue.
Initially, my barmaid goddess Carolyn provided me with the necessary
alcoholic sustenance. When she resigned her long-held post, she
bequeathed it to me and I became the barmaid goddess. I presided over
the junkies and the squatters, intrepid yuppies and neighborhood
locals, measuring out metered shots miserly watched over by the Polish
proprietress. Mixing drinks there was hardly an art. No flipping
bottles or pouring shots across lined-up tumblers. I would warn people
away from the Bloody Marys, since they were premixed and God knows how
old. Every ounce of alcohol was recorded by the meters' tiny dials,
making buybacks an impossibility. But there was always The Village
Idiot right next door, where you could dash in for a few free shots of
tequila, poured down your throat by the perpetually tanked Tommy, and
perhaps stay for your fill of Patsy Cline and Hank Williams before
scurrying back to the safety of Sweet and The Damned.
I worked alone: no busboy, no bouncer, no backup. I was the entire
staff. But when the situation demanded, my customers would help out,
hauling kegs for a free pitcher, or as they did the day I faced the
trashed Flasher. When I cut him off he threatened to disrobe. "Go
ahead. I've seen worse," I taunted him. Off came his T-shirt. As he
proceeded to remove the remainder of his clothing, a tourist armed with
a Polaroid camera began snapping away, no doubt assuming this was the
way things were done in the wild East Village. After the situation had
deteriorated to the point where the poor guy was rolling around on the
grimy carpet, feigning masturbation--which was, given his stupor,
totally futile--we all agreed he had to go. While I directed, eager
volunteers grabbed the Flasher's limbs and unceremoniously chucked him
out the door. I quickly locked it and a few minutes later we all
watched as the Flasher was taken away in a police vehicle. The
thoughtful tourist gave each of us our own personal Polaroid as a
momento.
Colorful regulars gave the place character, like Crazy Jerry, who would
go from perfectly sober to a ranting, cackling maniac in a moment's
time, or the Singing Man, who wore the same sweat suit for weeks on
end; he'd get right up close behind you and sing into your ear in what
was, I believe, a weak attempt at wooing. There was the Dollar Blowjob
Girl, the Flower Man and the guy you can still find pedaling his "I Am
Deaf" cards up and down Avenue A. Hot Dog would make her periodic
appearances, whenever she wasn't incarcerated. Carolyn once told me
about the time it took four muscular men to toss her out of the bar,
following a beer bottle connecting with Carolyn's head. Sometimes it
became impossible to monitor how many lunatics were packed into the
place.
The bathrooms were on a buzzer system. To ostensibly prevent dirtbags
and other nonpaying uncustomers from utilizing the facilities, the
bathroom doors were locked and it took a buzz from the barmaid to be
allowed access. So not only was I in charge of everyone's intake, I was
in charge of their output as well. Ah, the sweet allure of power.
Since stealing the hooch was virtually unheard of, the biggest bonus of
bartending at Beirut was being able to turn it into my own private
after hours club. I'd shoo out the undesirables, pull down the gates
and lock the door, letting friends and good tippers remain. While I
recorded all the tiny numbers of the measuring meters, I'd continue
serving up the cold pitchers. The best night was when a bunch of us
slow danced to "The Summer Wind" as the sun came up beyond the metal
barricades.
My husband and I courted in Downtown Beirut. He kept ordering bottles
of Rolling Rock and I kept telling him we only had it on tap. Even in a
really dark establishment, there's something about the way the light
falls on you when you're working behind the bar, I guess. Once, after a
long, late night, the two of us made love on the bar. I believe the
engagement followed soon thereafter. I met most of my closest friends
there and even a few enemies, like the seamy array of creeps who to
this day cross the street when they see me coming.
I was spit on, not once, but three successive times, in Downtown
Beirut, by an angry punk rock chick of threatening proportions. We
wound up being friends when I became the bartender. She'd come in with
her pals and her two amiable pit bulls and we'd all lament the way the
neighborhood was being taken over by the yuppies. If any of them ever
stumbled into the bar, the regulars would make it clear they'd ventured
into hostile territory. Suits and ties simply weren't welcome, making
the wearers targets for spilled drinks.
Wall Street types would drink there, though, coming incognito. I asked
one couple in too-new leather jackets what their story was and they
divulged their true identities: bankers. "But we come here for the
great jukebox," they whispered, begging me not to give them away. Not
like I needed to. It was obvious what they were, the same way it was
obvious who everyone else was--drug dealer or drug addict, slumming
rich kid or wide-eyed NYU student, cynical misanthrope or astute
anthropologist of the current--even though we all wore the same black
motorcycle jacket and sneer of jaded ennui. We may have all been
different, but we were also very much the same--united by six dollar
pitchers and the city's Best Jukebox.
Downtown Beirut is a thing of the past now. Occasionally I run into
people who used to hang out there and they all echo the same sentiment:
"Shit, I miss that bar!" It seems that none of us have been able to
find the same magical combination of alcohol, ambiance and convivial
camaraderie anywhere else.
[Written in the late '90 sometime...]
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