Last Thursday, it was so hot out that our brains were sweating. My friend Jim and I finished off a session of catchup over a couple cold ones and headed across the BQE to Red Hook for a couple more. As we crossed over the BQE on Sackett St., Jim remarked how he always wondered, while driving, who all those strange people were who crossed the BQE. Aside from hordes of Hasidic Jews, and the occasional sunbather, I couldn’t distinctly remember anybody else crossing the BQE. Ironically, I was wearing a black Fedora and could have easily been mistaken for an orthodox man of religion.
We strolled down Van Brunt and arrived at the Bait and Tackle bar. As I popped my head in, the owner apologetically stated that they weren’t open yet. ” Five minutes, once the bartender wakes up,” she said. We apparently didn’t have five minutes to spare for a cold one as we hopped next door to the friendly quarters of the Brooklyn Ice House.
Happy hour at the Ice House is nothing short of extraordinary. Not only can you drink cheaply, $2 Miller High Lifes, a Steveadore special (PBR and a shot of Rye 4 bucks) but you can chow on pulled pork sandwiches (2 for $5) or the surprisingly good homemade salsa and chips. Really, go there if you’re ever get stranded on a cruise ship or you’re part of the new season of, you guessed it, the real world! Horrible, isnt’ it?
You can complain all you want about Red Hook being invaded by corporate America personified by Fairway and Ikea, which looms in the distance of Van Brunt St. like Count Dracula’s castle; sucking out the blood of another classic Brooklyn neighborhood. But these places do provide jobs for thousands of people.
But what does the Real World provide a community besides seven strangers living in a house who stop being polite and start having sex with each other in a hot tub? Not much else.
We stumbled back to the Bait and Tackle bar to have another. The owner was pleased to see we had come back and in the hands of the bartender rested a piece of white paper with lots of fine print.
” It’s a confidentiality agreement,” he told us.
” Stick it on the Juke box,” somebody replied.
” Better yet, on the front door.”
” Yeah, that will show them.”
” There’s no fudging way I’m signing this,” the bartender said paying more attention to his cross word puzzle than the Viacom document.
Everybody had something to say about it except for one peacefully inebriated patron who was comatose at the bar.
Jim and I didn’t say much. I understood the procedure, working in television. Jim was just pleased to be a wall flower; staying quiet and enjoying the spectacle at hand.
” You know, I bet those girls would really go for a 42 year old NYC Parks attendant.They wouldn’t know what him ‘em”
” Yeah, this could be good for you man,” the bartender quipped.
We finished our beers and took off somewhat suddenly. We walked a couple blocks, felt around in our pockets and realized we could combine for two more Steveadors at Ice House. The bartender remembered us from earlier, sat us down at a booth and told the server to bring us some more salsa. The server brought the salsa to the wrong table and I could tell Jim was a bit irritated. She noticed and brought us more immediately. Jim was delighted.
” Thank you,” he said. ” It’s so good.”
What could the Real World possibly want with Red Hook? Are they trying to recapture the gritty New York feel of Real World Season 1? Where will they go to do body shots of Jagermeister out of each others belly buttons? Who are they going to fight outside of the bar after they have done said body shots? Perhaps the members of Clap your hands and say Yeah? Or possibly a disgruntled mom who cannot carry her vase home from the Garden Center? Sounds like amazing television.
Jim enlightened me.
” You know, all these people working at these bars could think we’re in on it.”
” You mean, working on the show?” I said.
” No, on it.”
We had never really hung around Red Hook that much. In fact, the bartender at Bait and Tackle eyed us as we left. Could he have thought we were part of the Real World gang?
” Come on, we don’t fit those stereotypes.”
” Yeah we do. Look at you. Beard, fedora. You’re the cool hipster type. Then there’s me. Quiet. Glasses. Tight white t-shirt on…”
” Gay guy,” I said.
” Yup.”
Could we really be making these stereotypes? The Real World isn’t that predictable is it? I wish I could devote more time, psychologically, to the clash of race, class and sexuality that happens on the show. But it’s just not worth it. My brain was sweating as it was.
I dimissed the idea and continued eating my salsa. Then, something caught my eye. The bartender was leaning over a piece of white paper with very fine print on it.
” Jim, check it out.” I said.
” It’s the confidentiality agreement.”
” They must be giving it out to all the bars on Van Brunt.”
We continued to look, hunched over, hiding behind out beers as to not look suspicious.
” She’s taking out her pen.”
” She’s going to sign.”
” Oh my god, this is amazing.” Jim said.
Drool dribbled down our mouths, astounded or just slightly drunk, at the events that had transpired over the past 30 minutes.
” She just signed,” I mumbled, covering my mouth as to not be heard by a lip reader.
We continued to stare until she glanced over at us, like a red fox spotting a baby Meerkat, and quickly folded the piece of paper, tucking it to her side. A driblit of fear dripped from my sweaty brain into my empty can of PBR.
” So, you wanna go?” Jim firmly suggested.
” I think that would be best.”
