Hang Up Your Fucking Coat

So last night B, C, and I went for a post-work drink in midtown. For Brooklynites like us, going to a bar in midtown is a daunting proposition. There are so many great bars in NYC. Settling for a sports bar filled with 100 screaming bankers with their khakis in a bunch about how long it's taking for the girl to bring them their goddamn potato skins goes against everything I stand for. But, in the interest of time or temperature, it is sometimes necessary to ignore all standards of taste and just go wherever the beer flows. Last night we hesitated in the doorways of a few places like the one I just described, but, sick-faced, we pivoted our way back outside, depressed, confused, and bereft of alcohol.

Across the street from one of these cruel places, we spotted a dark storefront with a single red light and a sign reading "Lounge." From what we could see, it was a bar, and it wasn't crowded. Score! We swung the door open. Emerging from the semi-darkness to greet us was a long-haired (long as in "to-the-butt-long") woman wearing a half shirt and spangly waist jewlery. She softly asked us to hang our coats, and told us that after we did so, she would "get us situated." Hmm. Above the coatrack, a sign echoed her sentiment, albeit in a more direct manner: HANG UP YOUR FUCKING COAT. We hung up our fucking coats.

We had stepped into what looked like a hookah lounge/manual relase parlor/cocktail lounge. It contained a bed bedecked with pink feather boas and a curious staircase that lead to an even more curious second floor. A few patrons scattered themselves on floor pillows, low armchairs, banquettes covered in red fabric, cowhide pillows. We were seated at a glassbox table that encased various papers and artifacts that we couldn't read for the darkness. Candles strained to light the tabletops and red Christmas lights illuminated the underside of the bar. Shoulders were shrugged, beer was ordered, and we proceeded to chat away about work and Midtown and whatever, happy to have found a semi-empty haven where we could drink in peace. We gathered this place hadn't ever seen a platter of potato skins.

People started coming in. Some suits, some girls that clearly worked together in the marketing department, some old guys. At the height of our conversation, a screech that was a cross between a Cherokee war whoop and a high-pitched yodel exploded from above. All conversation stopped, all heads snapped to the top of the staircase, where all that was visible was a pair of light brown arms snaking in the glow from a streetlight. Low, rhythmic music was suddenly playing, and an exquisite, fifty-percent-clothed woman began descending the staircase. She slunk, she writhed, she did things with her ribs I had no idea could be done. Her fingertips picked imaginary petals out of the air. We sipped our Stellas, mesmerized, breaking our stares every few minutes to exchange goofy smiles.

Another pair of arms made their entrance from the top of the staircase. Then another. Eventually, all three women were downstairs, dancing amongst the suits and the marketing chicks. C and I faced the action on the banquette, while B, the boy, faced the wall. He sat in his low chair looking at us, bellies and spangles gyrating behind him. We laughed. The women whirled, hair flying in sheets. We had gone from trudging around midtown, weighing this frat bar versus this sports bar, to sitting in the middle of an authentic belly dance show. I'll use an overused phrase: only in New York, kids, only in New York.