the fearful always preyed upon your confidence: didn't see the consquence. they pushed you around.
Last night, I was at The Liffy's III - a bar in South Bronx - with several friends from school, watching the Jags vs. Giants game. My friends were all there for the free shots you got with every touchdown. Me? I was there for the free hot dogs.
The game started at 8:30. My carpool crew got there around 9, and for the next half hour/forty-five minutes or so, the majority of the monday night Bar Experience was hot dogs, television, fighting over seats, hot dogs, friendly flirting, hot dogs, more television, and did I mention hot dogs? Because let me tell you, these were good hot dogs.
At about 10:00, I was sitting on a stool at the round corner table with James and Tony, and we were discussing age. The Jags were winning, 10 - 3, and had scored one touchdown over the Giants' zero. James, at this point, had consumed one shot and several cups of beer. Tony, who doesn't believe in taking shots for the other team, was merely on his second cup of beer. I was on my third hot dog.
"Kathleen," vocalized a slightly tipsy James, "how many hot dogs have you had?"
"Three," I responded as the Giants made the third down, and the bar erupted into screams of joy.
"No way! Three? How have you had three?"
"Quite simple: I stood up, asked Tony or you to save my seat, grabbed a bun, and got a hot dog."
"Oh. Don't eat too much, you'll get sick."
Tony leaned in. "Hey, she's eighteen, don't act like her mom."
I raised my eyebrow at Tony. "As a matter of fact, Anthony, I'm merely seventeen." And James, who had been in the process of pouring himself a fourth (or fifth) beer, nearly dropped the pitcher.
Perhaps I should have broken it to them more lightly.
"NO WAY!"
"Yes, way. I turn eighteen in eight days."
James stared at me. "Wow. I feel old."
"Oh?"
"Yes. Do you realize that by this time next year, people will expect me to have a steady job, to be looking for a place in the real world? And you shouldn't even be out of high school yet."
Later on in the night - midnight, actually - we celebrated Stan's twenty-first birthday. After a round of champaigne shots, supplied by the owner of Liffy's, I found myself at the bar with Stan, James, Catie, Brian, and Kenny. We spent a good half an hour trying to convince Stan that he really wasn't looking for meaningless hookups but a real relationship, another ten minutes debating which hookah bar was the best in the city, and then even more time ragging on Stan for having a screen name of epicly amusing proportions. Around 1:30, James (who was well on his way to drunk) draped an arm dramatically over my shoulder, and turned to Stan. "Stanley, did you know that this girl is officially four years younger than you as of an hour ago?"
Stan paused in downing his beer. "Really?"
I sighed. "Yes."
"Wow."
At first, I ignored the implications. Then Tony pranced up and poured half a can of beer down my shirt, and I completely forgot about the strangeness of age in my anger at the moment. But earlier today, I got to thinking about it, and it really is strange. I'm friends with these people who are three to four years older than I am. I technically should still be in high school. And the idea of having to know what I want to do with the rest of my life, quite frankly, terrifies the ever-living crap out of me.
******
"Hey," James said to Catie and I. "You know that now that you've chilled with us..."
"You're part of the crew," Stan continued. "And that means-"
"We'll take care of you," finished Tony. "If you ever need anything, anything at all..."
The three of them looked at each other, then chorused, "You call us."
******
Maybe it will be scary, finding my place in life. But the people I meet along the way will help to make it all the better.
The game started at 8:30. My carpool crew got there around 9, and for the next half hour/forty-five minutes or so, the majority of the monday night Bar Experience was hot dogs, television, fighting over seats, hot dogs, friendly flirting, hot dogs, more television, and did I mention hot dogs? Because let me tell you, these were good hot dogs.
At about 10:00, I was sitting on a stool at the round corner table with James and Tony, and we were discussing age. The Jags were winning, 10 - 3, and had scored one touchdown over the Giants' zero. James, at this point, had consumed one shot and several cups of beer. Tony, who doesn't believe in taking shots for the other team, was merely on his second cup of beer. I was on my third hot dog.
"Kathleen," vocalized a slightly tipsy James, "how many hot dogs have you had?"
"Three," I responded as the Giants made the third down, and the bar erupted into screams of joy.
"No way! Three? How have you had three?"
"Quite simple: I stood up, asked Tony or you to save my seat, grabbed a bun, and got a hot dog."
"Oh. Don't eat too much, you'll get sick."
Tony leaned in. "Hey, she's eighteen, don't act like her mom."
I raised my eyebrow at Tony. "As a matter of fact, Anthony, I'm merely seventeen." And James, who had been in the process of pouring himself a fourth (or fifth) beer, nearly dropped the pitcher.
Perhaps I should have broken it to them more lightly.
"NO WAY!"
"Yes, way. I turn eighteen in eight days."
James stared at me. "Wow. I feel old."
"Oh?"
"Yes. Do you realize that by this time next year, people will expect me to have a steady job, to be looking for a place in the real world? And you shouldn't even be out of high school yet."
Later on in the night - midnight, actually - we celebrated Stan's twenty-first birthday. After a round of champaigne shots, supplied by the owner of Liffy's, I found myself at the bar with Stan, James, Catie, Brian, and Kenny. We spent a good half an hour trying to convince Stan that he really wasn't looking for meaningless hookups but a real relationship, another ten minutes debating which hookah bar was the best in the city, and then even more time ragging on Stan for having a screen name of epicly amusing proportions. Around 1:30, James (who was well on his way to drunk) draped an arm dramatically over my shoulder, and turned to Stan. "Stanley, did you know that this girl is officially four years younger than you as of an hour ago?"
Stan paused in downing his beer. "Really?"
I sighed. "Yes."
"Wow."
At first, I ignored the implications. Then Tony pranced up and poured half a can of beer down my shirt, and I completely forgot about the strangeness of age in my anger at the moment. But earlier today, I got to thinking about it, and it really is strange. I'm friends with these people who are three to four years older than I am. I technically should still be in high school. And the idea of having to know what I want to do with the rest of my life, quite frankly, terrifies the ever-living crap out of me.
******
"Hey," James said to Catie and I. "You know that now that you've chilled with us..."
"You're part of the crew," Stan continued. "And that means-"
"We'll take care of you," finished Tony. "If you ever need anything, anything at all..."
The three of them looked at each other, then chorused, "You call us."
******
Maybe it will be scary, finding my place in life. But the people I meet along the way will help to make it all the better.