I had a crush on Crazy Erik for approximately 2.3 seconds. I do not know if he was christened as Crazy Erik, but that was the name he answered to. I would call him, he would answer his phone – “Hello?” I would say, “Crazy Erik?” He would say, “Yup!” Just so you get the idea of what we’re dealing with here. He did not call me by my name either. He called me Sunshine. I don’t know if he ever said my actual name, which is rather funny when you think about it. I don’t have harmless crushes anymore – I’m way too old for that crap – but this one was totally benign and fun. Crazy Erik and Sunshine sittin’ in a tree! Yay!!
Crazy Erik managed a bar in Jersey City. He talked about it as though it was literally the greatest bar that had ever existed. Think of any of the great bars you have been into. Green Parrot in Key West? Jazz Bulls in Chicago? Chumley’s in New York? Bah. They are NOTHING compared to Crazy Erik’s bar. When I first walked into the joint, I saw that it was … well, it was a dive. The smell of stale smoke in the air. Rickety little bowls of pretzel on the short little bar. There were a couple tables – a jukebox – and a cigarette machine. He had made me think that it would literally BLOW MY MIND when I walked in how cool it was! It was basically re-defining what a bar WAS!
WAIT TIL YOU SEE MY COOL BAR, SUNSHINE!!
His behavior was cute because he didn’t know it was cute. He was being sincere. I don’t think he had an insincere bone in his body. But … er … it was a dive. Let’s be honest. However, I said, accordingly, “Wow! This place is so great, Crazy Erik! It’s awesome!” Because it was expected of me, and because he smiled at me with such anticipatory excitement. No harm done. Truth is way over-rated, you have to pick your moments. And in a moment like that, you should always choose to be kind. I had two choices: Truth or Kindness. I chose Kindness.
So during the 2.3 seconds that I had a crush on Crazy Erik he bombarded me with tales about his bar, and different promotions and drink specials he was running, and how it was going to be THE place to hang out, and how it was ladies night this night, and two-for-one that night, and Guinness night the next night … Like, every night of the week had some hugely specific SPECIAL THING that was going on. It was way too high-maintenance for me. When I go to a bar, I like to just sit and chill with my drink … not have to do a hula dance in order to earn the right to have a second drink, or whatever. But still, Crazy Erik was really excited about all of it.
Phone rings. I pick up. “Sunshine!” shouts Crazy Erik. “Hey, Crazy Erik – what’s up?” (Please remember that I have a crush on him – not realizing that it is nearly halfway done at this point – so my heart leaps with excitement that he has called me! Crazy Erik called me!!) He plunges right in, “Just wanted you to know that Thursday night we’re having a pajama party at the Coolest Bar in the World – just show up in your pajamas and your first drink will be free!” Again, with the unbelievable high-maintenance of this damn bar. Paint your face green, get a free glass of wine! Jump rope for 20 minutes on the sidewalk – get 2 margaritas for the price of one! Bang your head against the wall until it bleeds – happy hour prices! I mean, please, just chill out. Let me drink in peace.
But he was so excited about the pajama party, and I had a huge crush on him, so I figured – okay, whatever, I’ll go.
And obviously I HAD to go in pajamas. It would have been completely unacceptable for me to show up in regular clothes. He would have been very disappointed in me, and I couldn’t deal with that.
Now, let’s factor this in: This is February. So it’s the middle of winter, frigid, bleak, ice-coated winter.
I babble to my roommate and dear friend Jen about all of this. “He invited me … should I wear pajamas? … what the hell should I do? … I have such a crush on him! Help me!” You know. Nuts. Jen said, “I’ll come with you!” Which immediately relaxed me. Now I can have a partner in crime for this insane adventure, and I won’t have to go to some random bar (even if it is the Coolest Bar in the World) and sit there while my current crush is busy working, and socializing and running the joint … and feel really awkward and silly and yukky. Now we could make a night of it!
It was a night of freezing rain, the night of the pajama party.
This is the test of true friendship. Jen and I put on our pajamas. We then primped, did our hair and makeup. As freezing rain battered against our windows. We then put on big heavy boots, our winter coats, and called for a cab to come get us. We are in our pajamas. We hurry down the ice-drenched steps to clamor into the car, feeling incredibly subversive and SILLY because our flannel-clad legs are sticking out beneath our coats. What are we doing?
Oh yeah, and the “party” didn’t start until after 10 p.m. Which is way late for me to be going out. I know I’m a fuddy-duddy, but it’s true. I can stay out until 4 in the morning, don’t get me wrong – but I have to START my evening earlier than 10. If I go home before going out – forget about it. I will not leave my apartment again. So to put on pajamas, walk outside into freezing February night, at 10 pm … just shows you how intense the crush was. Granted, the crush only had about 1 second left to live – but I didn’t know that at the time. I was livin’ it up! Havin’ my crush! Wearing pajamas at night! In public!
Jen and I started getting extremely giggly halfway to the bar. It was so rainy that night that I remember flood waters were gushing out of the sewage drains on corners. Our cab would have to slow down to go through the raging rivers. For whatever reason, the floods were funny to us … because we had pajamas on? I don’t know. We started laughing, and our mascara ran a little bit.
The cab dropped us off at the bar. A dive on a random corner in Jersey City. The neon beer signs gleamed out through the wet, smudging like watercolors … It actually did look kind of cozy, from outside. Jen and I huddled under the umbrella and ran from the cab to the bar. In that time, we became absolutely drenched. Freezing gushing water. Over our primped hair and makeup.
We walked in.
Only to discover that we were the only ones in our pajamas.
Crazy Erik was nowhere to be seen.
Everyone looked at us. Since it was, after all, a dive … it had a bunch of hard-drinking regulars – women with hard faces, feathered hair, and a penchant for playing The Allman Brothers or Lynrd Skynrd over and over on the jukebox. And we clamored in, giggly, soaked, with plaid flannel sticking out every which way.
“Remain calm,” Jen said to me, and we floated nonchalantly to one of the tables. We took off our coats, brazenly revealing our pajama-ed glory for the entire place – and sat there, casually, as though nothing was weird at all. Did we get the wrong night? How could that have happened? We were in Jersey City in a bar in our pajamas. We had no explanation for our behavior.
As you can probably imagine, hysteria began to gurgle up in our throats. We were nearing the abyss of a laughing fit. It was coming. We perched on the stools, waiting to be served, looking around us – rain battering against the windows … and suddenly – there was Crazy Erik. He came bursting out of the kitchen. And he was wearing pajamas! As well as a long flannel robe.
He saw me immediately and freaked out with excitement. “SUNSHINE! Holy shit, you came!!” He embraced me gustily, and I was beyond thrilled. Jen had never met Crazy Erik, so she sat there shyly, in her pajamas (I have to keep reiterating that), waiting to be introduced. I introduced them. Crazy Erik was a great person, let me just say that. He was naturally friendly. Naturally gregarious and outgoing. You felt relaxed when you were with him, even if you were shy. He was really nice. Crazy, don’t get me wrong – but so friendly. Natural friendliness is a rare quality. He had it in spades. He was laughing so hard at our tale of making our way through the floodwaters of Jersey to get to his bar in our pajamas. He inspected our pajamas, loving every minute of it. He thought it was so great that we were there – and that we were playing along with his game. We were not “above” the game. We leapt into the game with him. This seemed to be all he wanted. He was also really handsome. If Bob from Sesame Street were hot (can you imagine that?) – Crazy Erik would look like that.
“So! Sunshine – Jen – what do you want to drink? No, wait – let me make you something. Can I? It’ll be a surprise – can I???”
How could one say “no” to that. I did manage to say, “Please. Nothing with coconut.” because I just can’t have that … but off he went, bathrobe fluttering behind him, so excited to make us special drinks.
We had 5 minutes until he came back, so of course Jen and I sat there discussing him vigorously. “So what do you think?” “He’s so cute – I think he really likes you, Sheila.” “He’s adorable, isn’t he? He calls me Sunshine.” “He’s cute …” Etc. We analyzed everything that happened thus far in excruciating forensic detail. In our pajamas. When Crazy Erik returned with our drinks, he said, “Okay! You can stop discussing me now!” Much laughter.
The drinks were lemony martinis – something I never would have ordered – but yummy, tart and chilled. Again, NOT liking the drink seemed not to be an option – he was so excited about his concoction – so we both took sips and said, “Omigod, delicious!”
Crazy Erik was busy running the bar, so it was great that Jen was there. I knew I needed a partner in crime. We teetered on our stools, sipping our martinis, talking, and laughing hysterically. Everything shimmered. We were kind of disheveled, just because the freezing storm outside had ruined our primping efforts – but there, in that warm cozy space – it didn’t seem to matter. We went to the jukebox and stood there, having a great time looking through all the selections, and picking out songs. We ordered beers. We sat there, not talking, totally enjoying the music. People played darts. Jen noticed a random helium balloon floating around aimlessly on the ceiling. It looked like it was alive, and kind of a wallflower balloon, looking for company. This also struck us as hugely amusing and we could not stop looking at it, and commenting on its behavior. “Oh, maybe it wants to join that group over there.” “Yeah, maybe.” “Oh – nope. It wants to talk to us now apparently …” “Wow, it turned away. I feel really rejected.” Occasionally Crazy Erik would come over and stand with us, grinning, having a great time, loving that people were hanging out in his bar, having fun on a cold cold night. Loving that we had actually taken his pajama directive seriously. He couldn’t get over it.
Jen and I didn’t know where we were, and we had come on a whim.
The bar had a big front window, and when we looked outside, we could see the sheets of rain coming down, we knew how cold it was out there, we could see the rain battering the concrete. If the temperature dropped tonight – the sidewalks would be sheets of ice by tomorrow. But we were inside – with Crazy Erik taking care of us – and songs like “Tainted Love” and “Hotel California” playing on the jukebox – and the sounds of laughter bursting from this corner, or from the bar, or from that table – and the lonely balloon wandering by above, looking for company – and our dangling pajama-clad legs … and I guess, in that moment, I suddenly couldn’t believe that I had ever thought of this place as a “dive”. It had transformed before my eyes and I realized that Crazy Erik was right. It was the best bar in the world.
that’s hilarious — too funny
a whole 2.3 seconds eh? can’t imagine that after a moment like that it didn’t work out!
one could do a whole blog on favorite bar stories — I remember drinking long necks in a trailer bar outside Jelico Tennessee with a fella I swear looked like Alfred E. Newman – just about the time the Wal-Mart girls came in, I started telling them how I was arrested for hitting a pig the night before with my Jeep….
oh yes, beer stories…
Your life seems so full of these vivid moments that seem suspended somehow from the tedium of “the real world.” It’s like being IN a painting, able to look around and appreciate the colors, the brush strokes, and feeling that you are, just for the moment, magically free from consequence. It’s beautiful, and I don’t know if it’s that your life is extraordinary or that you are just that good of a wordsmith, or both. I think both.
Eric – thank you! I don’t know if my life is all that extraordinary – but I do know that when I write stuff down I remember things that – well, it’s almost like I see my own life with a microscope. I had totally forgotten about the wandering lonely balloon and how funny we found it until I was in the middle of writing this – and I love it when that happens. It’s almost like I get to reclaim a memory or something. Even if it’s something really really small – because we remember the big stuff, right? The big events. But – like Emily at the very end of Our Town realizes – it’s gonna be the really small stuff that we will miss. The smell of clean laundry, rain on a window, baking bread, all the little things that make up life. I try to write from that place.
I think most of us could describe our “extraordinary” lives if we were half as observant as our hostess, and as good at capturing a mood, or turning a phrase. Sheila is the kind of person who notices you are wearing two different colored socks before you do. More importantly, she loves you for it.
I love bars. I rarely go in one these days, but I still love them. Each one has its own history, chemistry, hierarchy, unspoken rules and jokes–each one has its own family of characters. I still get excited when I look down a back hallway of a new(to me) bar and see a corner of a pool table. Is there any greater thrill than discovering a truly great jukebox with unexpected and diverse selections? We might disagree about what constitutes a great selection, but we all know that feeling of walking up to a jukebox, and finding favorite tunes rarely seen on a jukebox–or a great choice of real jazz–or The Talking Heads, Roxy Music, and Steely Dan–or a U2 song like Two Hearts Beat as One that you never see on a jukebox. You know what I mean. There is some truth to that silly Cheers theme. There is something comforting about walking into YOUR bar. The place where people know you, and your story. They know what you drink, when you are pissed, who you have slept with, and not to bet against you at pool. They ignore your occasional improprieties, watch your back, and share your pain. At least they did at my place.
One last thing. Don’t knock hard-drinking women with an affection for The Allman Brothers. I have loved a few of them.
I didn’t knock them! I just described them. hahahaha
I love your comment about the jukebox – it is so so true. There are a couple places in New York notorious for their awesome jukeboxes – and there’s just something so fun and God-like about standing there, making a selection. And then waiting for “your songs” to come on. Such a simple pleasure!
And DBW – I so so agree. There’s nothing like finding a really good “local”. My town has no “local” and it’s kind of a bummer, although probably a good thing in the long run. There’s a great bar in Hoboken that I go to with my friend David whenever we want to catch up – and – I can’t explain it. We have the most amazing conversations there, nobody bugs us, it’s not too loud – but there’s a GREAT jukebox – it’s just homey. Hard to explain. But I do love going there.
This is the kind of stuff I love to read from you. Like the post about the bus ride and the funny sign a few days back, you are so good at capturing a scene.
Now I’m going to sound critical, but I mean it in a literary way–I mean it in the nicest possible way–where are you going? Where are you going with this? What happens to Crazy Erik? Where is the moment that the crush falls away? What happens to the “I” in the story? Where is she going? This is an excellent scene–but I want an excellent *story*. Please, finish it. I love it, but right now it has a kind of “so what?” ending. Maybe I’m being hyper-critical? So sorry, I try to bite back on that when I can.
I know what you mean when you say “probably a good thing in the long run.” When my wife and I bought the house we live in now, it was only about 2 miles down a major road from my old “local.” My thinking was, “Hey, great. I can stop in occasionally, play a little pool again, have a beer after work, etc. Well, it closed about a month after we moved in. I was disappointed at the time, but I realize now that was probably a blessing. I really didn’t need to start shooting pool, and having after-work cocktails with any regularity. Besides, there is a weird dynamic to bars. The years go by, and it isn’t really YOUR place anymore. There is a completely new set of characters with their own history and chemistry. It’s like going back to the neighborhood where you grew up. The houses are still there, but you feel a little like an alien. What you remember as “home” wasn’t the streets and houses, it was the mix of people–friends, families, crazies, bullies, hot older girls, the paper boy, etc. I took my son back to my old neighborhood two years ago. We were invited into my old house. It was fun, but kind of depressing. The house was a mess inside. You could tell the owners didn’t take care of it. We went down in the woods that surrounded all the houses, and found the remnants of an old tree house I had helped build. The tree had swallowed about 90% of the “ladder” we had nailed up its side, and most of the tree fort was rotted. My son thought those woods were about the coolest thing he had ever seen. He put his hand on one of the ends of the wood ladder sticking out from the tree, and said, “Wow, you put this here,” like it was the Taj Mahal, or something. We had a great time, very nostalgic for me, but I felt a real sense of disconnection from it all. It was almost as if someone was showing me where they grew up.
DBW–You’re right, it is the people, and yet … I think there is nothing quite like seeing a place that hasn’t changed to realize how much *you’ve* changed. I feel that way everytime I go to my old house.
I call it my house (as opposed to my home), because I don’t live there anymore, although I still own it. I can’t bear to get rid of it. My dad grew up in that house, I grew up in that house. Now I rent it to college students. It is over 300 miles away, terribly inconvenient, the town is not the same, none of my friends live there anymore–the dynamics, as you say, have changed. Still, there is that surge of nostalgia evertime I’m there. And the feeling like I’m out of place.
Missy–That is really interesting–you own the house you grew up in. I get that completely. I am very sentimental and nostalgic. One of my younger cousins bought, and lives in, my Grandparent’s house. He grew up right down the street from them, and was lucky to have them in his life every day. The strange thing is he hasn’t changed the furniture or anything. I love it because it’s as if they just left yesterday. My Grandfather’s tools, fishing poles, and even his car are still in the same places in the garage/basement. My Grandmother’s little notepads, still with her notes there, are in the drawer, and the plates, glasses, and utensils of my youth are all still there. Many of their personal items are still in the medicine cabinet. Same with towels, blankets, clocks, paintings, etc. It smells the same as it always did. It’s like a time capsule. I have no feeling of disconnection from the house, or my Grandparents. On the other hand, all of us worry about my cousin, and think it is probably unhealthy for him that he refuses to change anything. The truth is he just can’t let go of my Grandparents. I understand because I loved them so much, but life doesn’t work well if we hold on to the past that tightly. Again, I love visiting their house–the wonderful memories just flood over me–but I hope my cousin finds a way to move on. He’ll realize someday that you never really lose people who meant that much to you. They are gone, but their influence and imprint on your life is permanent.
am i allowed to say i coined the name ‘crazy erik’? i remember trying to get his attention, shouting ‘erik!” and then without thinking i just described who he is, “crazy erik!” and then his head turned. haha.
this si a great story.
Siobhan, really??? Yes, please – take credit for it!! hahahahahahahaha Too funny that he answered to that name.
then after that happened i’m like, clearly that is what he prefers to answer to! and hunter started then calling him that, too.
That is just so so funny. Sometimes I do wonder what ever happened to him.
i’ll give you a scoop when i see you next.
Don’t you agree that he looked kind of like a hot Bob from Sesame Street? Or am I WAY off base?
Oh, and yes. Must have scoop.
Whatever DID happen to crazy erik?