Jia J.
Yelp
The most expedient road to Pete's coincided with the same route I took every morning and some evenings during NYC's Adult Lap Swim program at McCarren Park Pool. So, as I approached and then passed by the park, my whole body tingled with memories of warmer mornings gone by.
It was the Thursday of the first week of my first full time job in 9 months and I was exhausted. It was also bitterly cold, especially in contrast to the annoyingly balmy breeze that had teased through the city until that very same morning. So, I made haste to the only possible venue on a desolate, classic block of Greenpoint.
I liked this place immediately. Even when I saw a full house fogging up the windows from the inside, I didn't feel anxious or annoyed. It was toasty inside, and there was a seat right at the warm wooden bar, along with hooks underneath (thank God) upon which to relegate winter baggage.
Along with several other approachable deals chalked out on quaint boards overhead was a sign for a $5 PBR and shot of one of them brown liquids. Any other place offering this type of combo will use "well whiskey" at best or dishrag rinsewater for all we know, so imagine my surprise when the bullet they were serving with the piss poor PBR was Jim Fuckin Beam.
Meanwhile, a very cute guy with a 30% chance of being gay chatted me up whilst demanding pickles from the well-shouldered bartender/food server. When I expressed my surprise that you could just get pickles upon request, the stranger gave me one of his pickles, and proceeded to coach me through the proper way to take a shot of Jim Beam (breathe out your mouth and inhale through your nose, apparently). After imparting this kind advice, he departed, right in time for my friend to arrive.
By this time, I felt a nice buzz kindling in my veins, and became enthusiastic about the real reason I'd come - to see the Chapin Sisters perform traditional country songs for free. Surprisingly, I felt comfortable enough to just leave all my shit hanging on the hooks, defying anyone to pry into my meager belongings. I already felt like this place was my house.
As I walked towards the back area, I realized there was a window to order food (but my friend's friends talked shit on the paninis, so I decided firmly to stick to drinks). There was also a large picnic table in a seating area outside two unisex bathrooms. Somehow, there was no odor. Somehow, it wasn't as clusterfuckish as most areas outside of bathrooms.
Then, there was a little glass door. I peered in, and couldn't believe my eyes. The sisters, dressed in lengths of velvet and organza and looking like Nordic twins in a Free People catalog, were singing on a tiny stage, bathed in soft stage lighting mirrored by candlelight on tables flanking the narrow space. Plenty of people were standing, and I could see that the tiny room was stuffed to the gills. A sign deterred anyone from entering through that door, so I walked around to the side, where there was a narrow kind of throughway where one couple annoying yapped with one another but where everyone else was standing quietly and respectfully, just trying to get closer to the music.
A totally harmless guy took notice of me, and cheerfully asked if I was going to try my luck. People looked our way, but without judgment or irritation. As the strains of music reached my ears, I grew fidgety and started tiptoing. I thought I saw a spot. When I expressed this sentiment, the same guy said, "Well, you don't know unless you try and find out," and moved aside, permitting me to squeeze past him. Then, something amazing happened...all the other people between me and this maybe-spot moved aside without hissing or hating. They made room for me. And I found my spot, thankful for once for being short lest I obscure another person's view.
At first standing in the direct line of sight of the performers (that was a bit awkward, because I kept making sustained eye contact and feeling alternately creepy and cowardly about it all), then sitting on the rich wooden floor, I reached complete and total bliss amongst non-annoying, eclectic music lovers who hadn't begrudged me my own little space.
My mom confessed that, when she was a little girl and the radio first came to her village, her instinct was to believe that whole orchestrasof musicians were contained inside the machine. Sitting there as the harmonies washed over me and murmurs of admiration and satisfaction rippled through the gathering, I knew exactly what she must've imagined. For, I was inside just such a radio; a little music box of tiny entertainers captivating listeners inside and out.
When the concert dispersed, I ran outside looking for the dude who'd encouraged me to go inside, wanting to bankroll him a drink. No luck, so I found my friends, collected my stuff, and spent the next couple hours getting silly with younger strangers, comparing our styles of applause. I didn't want to leave.