When you get out of Bellvue, they just discharge you and won’t even tell you where you are, my friend says. Even if your phone is dead. They just say you’re in Brooklyn. She’s been in twice in the last few months. The last time she got into one of those circular conversations with a police officer on the subway platform and said something about touching the third rail. So they sent her to Bellvue.
She goes outside to smoke a cigarette and I follow her. A thick Dominican guy with a cop type of build comes outside with his Corona. He’s not smoking. You shouldn’t have your beer outside, my friend says. The bartender could get in trouble. She could get a ticket. He mumbles some bullshit about how much respect he has for the bartender. Well then I’m not gonna be nice to you, she says, walking towards the curb, leaving us both standing outside for no reason. Is she with you, he asks. No, I say. I guess not. Not really. Why not, he says. A lot of reasons, I say. He is staring at her hard. If you’re not with her I guess… then… mumble mumble… something. Maybe she needs some coke, he says. She doesn’t need that, I say. He perks up, smiling sideways at me like a Dominican leprechaun. Why not? Look man, I say, why don’t you take your drink inside.
Don’t tell me what the fuck to do, he says, sticking his finger in my face. Ok, I say, that was weird. I walk towards my friend who is still standing on the curb with her back to us. Do you want to go, I ask her. I don’t want to leave the bartender alone with him, she says. After a few minutes he comes up and starts trying to talk with us. My friend tells me she’s going to take a walk around the block. The guy is trying to apologize to me. I don’t like that, he says, now she’s pissed off. I shrug and go back inside.
She comes back and is sitting next to me at the bar. Then the guy sits down on the other side of me, and he starts talking to me about rollerblading, and how hard it is. You ride a bike? Uhhh yeah, I say. I am falling asleep even though I haven’t had anything to drink. Rollerblading is harder than biking, he tells me. Uh huh. Wow. My friend is talking to the bartender. Another friend of mine. Rollerblading is harder than running, the guy tells me. He tries to enter the conversation the girls are having on the other side of me. They ignore him. He tells me he has a two thousand dollar pair of rollerblades. Damn, I say. He wants to buy everyone a shot. My friend has one already. I’m sober. He does a shot by himself.
I’m gonna leave, I tell my friend. She is going to stay and make sure the bartender is ok. Of course she’s ok, I want to say, the weird crazy guy is hyper fixated on you, not her. But I don’t say any of that. I let her walk me to the corner and say goodbye. A year ago it would have stressed me out, but now I don’t care. Now she’s the one who says weird cryptic shit to me as I walk off into the night.
Ten minutes later I get a message from her. Can I text my friend the bartender and check if she’s ok. She had to leave the bar right after me because the guy tried to follow her into the bathroom. My bartender friend confirms that she is, in fact, ok. Now that both of them are gone.
