Monsters in our Midst
- This was the title of an essay I had been set for class, which reminded me of the first time I went out for a drink with my soon-to-be girlfriend (and now ex-girlfriend), AK. The boss, JWS, was also along, trying to get lucky.
Monsters in our Midst
We’ll get underway at a locals’ bar on the Upper-East Side, a dark room with an open front, an ill-used jukebox, and three of us—AK (the new bartender), JWS (my boss, who you already know) and myself—nestled around a small, circular table. On it lie our beers in various states of repose; mine worriedly contemplating its end; AK’s enjoying enthusiastic attention; and JWS’s replete with an obnoxious calm after several dull, untouched minutes, its owner too busy to sip as he talks, and talks, and talks…about himself.
AK and I tended bar at a local pool hall. In it we were privy to a comprehensive view of the American discourse; wealthy 1930s geriatrics, bickering of rival boxing coaches, overworked teachers frustrated alcoholics, swellheaded artists, JAPS, immigrants, call girls, lunatics…the list went on and on. Mostly our function was in the form of the traditional package—supplier and therapist—but I was also hired as “house pro,” a lofty position that meant I actually got paid to play pool, thanks to my boss, JWS.
He was a man both of the army and of insurance, in that he used to sell the latter to members of the former—you can make of that what you will. My understanding is that although the money had been excellent he couldn’t deal with the stress, so he decided to buy a pool hall in which he could chill-out by wholly repressing his subordinates.
Back to that night. JWS was really trying to impress AK. She was a rather pretty girl who’d also only been working with us by then for a couple of days, so he was probably banking on the fact that she didn’t yet know who he was or what he was actually like. His humble beginnings (he was the son of one of the wealthiest men I’ve ever met), his wild youth, his disaffection with New York after returning from extensive and long-haired travels—all these stories were dredged up as they had been for many other girls, well oiled and plausible.
“I’m telling you,” he said, looking sideways at her, “Philly is the most hateful place on the planet. I’ve been there; I know. I told the girl I was seeing at the time—a beautiful, gorgeous woman—that she couldn’t love me because she couldn’t love anybody.”
He chuckled. His divorce had left him maladjusted.
“You know me,” he continued, those beady, ferret-like eyes pointing directly at mine, “I’m not racist, but Philly and New York are just so tribal. I mean, I’ve traveled, I’ve been all over this country, and there’s no cultural mix, not for guys like us, not for white guys.”
“Well,” I started, not sure how best to approach this, “I heard we’re supposed to call society a beautiful mosaic instead of melting pot, now that-” JWS’s laugh cut me off, he must have thought I was telling a joke.
“There are many cultures here. I don’t dislike any of them,” he started, going on to explain the immigrant situation: no one ever bothers to learn English, because they don’t need to. At some point I got up to get another round.
If you found that all confusing, so did I. There often wasn’t much of a logical progression in our conversations, especially not with a girl there. I’ve forgotten most of the middle of our dialogue, but I do remember one spirited discussion that involved JWS offering a somewhat teleological argument, expressed with much drama, to establish the likelihood of God’s existence—although, considering JWS’s devout atheism, I believe this was just an excuse to impress AK with how profound one becomes after one has scuba-dived along the Great Barrier Reef. He also said the soul of his late grandfather had pushed his car back from a cliff, saving his life. My argument that perhaps it is we who are mysterious for inventing peculiarities fell on deaf ears, but it was worth the dig.
Nearer the end of the night JWS remembered that girls like you to ask them about themselves.
“So who is Japanese, your mum or your dad?”
“They both are,” she said, sitting up a little.
“But you don’t look Japanese.”
“Yeah, well I am.”
“But you don’t look Japanese. You look white. Why do you look white?”
“I think you can work that one out.”
“But…”. He started, drifting off.
“I was adopted.”
“Oh. Hey,” he said, not missing a beat, “what’s the story with the flower?” AK wore a white flower over her left ear.
“It’s a tradition in Hawaii. We wear one in the right ear to show we are single, or the left ear to show we are taken.”
“So do you have a boyfriend back home?”
“No.”
“Do you have a boyfriend here?”
“No.”
“So why are you wearing a flower in your left ear? Doesn’t that mean you have a boyfriend?”
“Yeah, I suppose I just wear it there out of habit.” She shrugged, breaking apart a bar mat into much smaller pieces.
“Do you surf?” he inquired.
“Yeah.”
“Because I’m a big surfer. I traveled around a lot, surfing. I’ve always wanted to go to Hawaii. Have you seen the photo of me on the computer? Yeah, that was taken of me, I think I told you about it. I wiped out but it made a great photo. Great surf. I’ve surfed in quite a few places. I should come with you to Hawaii.”
He slid off his chair to go for a cigarette, obviously congratulating himself. AK’s deadpan face wasn’t giving anything away. God, I worried, I hope none of this is working on her. “I’m going outside for a cigarette,” JWS said, taking one out of her packet on the table and walking off. I looked AK straight in the eyes (I usually avoid eye contact with beautiful women), and said absolutely everything I could.
“Listen, AK, I don’t want to scare you, I don’t want to stop you from working here, but I just think I should…” I searched for the right words, “…should warn you about JWS. He’s a racist, homophobic, egocentric, sexist, bigoted narcissist [I’d used this line several times before], and even though he might not seem so bad at the moment…. Listen, he took all the black music off the jukebox to get rid of that crowd. The Alize and Hennessey are on a separate part of the computer so he can work out how many black drinks he’s serving. He’s bought prostitutes. And he got a stripper fired…I mean…I’ve heard all this stuff he’s saying before. You’re not special [perhaps not my best choice of phrasing]; this is all just part of his game. He gets girls drunk at the bar, tells them this exact stuff, and then fucks them. Actually, I would have left the two of you here a long time ago if I wasn’t so sure that he’d make-”
“-Don’t worry, RR [one of our regular customers] told me all of this already. He told me not to go for a drink with JWS.”
I was near silent or the rest of the evening, my mind buzzing. Questions—dozens of them—budding more questions, until I couldn’t stop wondering how extensive the safety net was. Systems had been set up, organically and spontaneously, to protect people who would come into contact with JWS. I began to look at how I might be a part of this; who I had warned, what I had done. Also, what hadn’t I done? How many people were part of this system? Were there any gaps?
- Incidentally, eventually I got fired for warning people about JWS. I called him an asshole to a new bartender, an actor, who promptly grassed me up. Suits me right, probably
Tags: eastside billiards
