Saturday night, Maeve and I celelbrated our birthdays, jointly, at Sunny's in Red Hook. Many friends showed up and there were indeed tons of cakes. However, due to the fact that I was on antibiotics I wasn't drinking much and was somewhat furious and uptight all evening.
Maeve, whose actual bday it was, was resplendent in a two-tone silk romper. After the initial hiccup of her boyfriend (my brother's) spectacularly poor performance (over an hour late to pick her up, due to attendance at a bbq in NJ - remedied by a combo of canny begging/palm-greasing at Fish Camp Brooklyn) - things went as planned. The good and faithful were out in force, many who should have been there weren't and some others came for no very clear reason but were appreciated nonethelesss. The usual miasma of local musicians drifted in and out of the back room for an extended old-timey jam session. People cast envious, furious glances at our table of cakes. (NB we had choc, monkey, strawberry, coconut w. ballerinas and, from Maeve for me, a rhubarb-lemon confection covered in marzipan which, while it didn't end up resembling a kewpie's face as ambitiously planned, was excellent.) I spent a lot of time running around and making sure everyone had cake (in case people had missed the hundred or so in plain sight) and jealously guarding the cakes from other patrons, even though we had way too much and everyone had to bring huge hunks of it home.
Shouted the bluegrass guitarist at our friend Polly, apropos of nothing: "Young, drunk, and big tits! That's what I like to see!"
As the evening wore on and people started to drift away, various predatory drunks showed up. Worst one: this tall guy in a patchwork flat cap. He had a disconcerting habit of looming and swaying at very close range, then slurring stuff.
"Those are my boys," he slurred to me confidentially as I tried to watch the music. "Play that fuckin shit, motherfuckers!"
Later, he materialiazed as Maeve and I were gathering up the cakes.
"Wanna go to the pier?" He slurred at Maeve.
"No," she said politely. We continued cleaning. He loomed and swayed.
"Jus' checkin'," he said at length. "I' case you wanned'a see the...Statue a' Liberty."
.............................................................................
Due to lack of sleep, both Maeve and I were very surly today at work.
"I think...I hate Jack." I said to her at one point of an innocuous mutual acquaintance who had just waved at us from the sidewalk.
"He's ungrateful and difficult," she concurred.
"I don't know why he's so delighted with himself."
"He really does have a stoner's arrogance."
"Well put."
We then discussed our least favorite celebrity babies*, the relationship between Natalie Portman and Devendra Banhart, and asses in leggings. We were seething.
A friend texted Maeve to wish her happy birthday and apologize for missing the party.
"Fuck you" she texted back.
My friend Catherine stopped in, looking dejected. "I just went to Orchard Street Corsets and the Hasid said I was a D-cup," she told me glumly. "I guess I was in denial."
"Did you get a good bra?"
"I'm wearing it."
"Is it hideous?"
"Yeah. It's kind of vagina-colored."
*Bad name. He is technically cute.
No comments:
Post a Comment