CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR
2004- Jake Fuckin’ Shinman
On the third day of my 5-day fuck-it spree, I decided to go downtown to see if there was anything worth getting into. Definitely wanted to stop by my favorite Ambien and dope connect and make a purchase. Maybe I’d add a little blow to the mix.
After that, I’d most likely head down to the East Village and grab a few beers at a nice, comfy dive bar- if I could even find one at this point in the city’s gentrification death spiral. Basically, see if I could stir up any trouble. Go wherever the night took me.
I was just stepping off the A train at Penn Station when this guy bum rushed me and caught me by the arm. I slowly looked around and saw polished brown lace-up shoes, a navy suit, white button down with no tie, and a bland white boy face with curly brown hair cut short on the sides.
“Eula?” The Wall Street bro asked.
“Eula! Hey!”
“Ohhhh,” I said, recognition finally dawning. “Jake Fuckin’ Shinman.”
“Ha ha, stop!” he laughed. “What are you doing? Do you work around here?”
“No,” I replied. “I work uptown. Far uptown.”
“Like Harlem?”
“No, way past Harlem.”
He looked confused, like a land that far away from where we were currently standing could only exist in nightmares.
“Anyway,” he began, “what are you doing now? I’m catching a train back to Manhasset, but I have a little bit of time. Wanna go grab a drink?”
I’d heard he and his obnoxious wife had bought a house in her obnoxious hometown. My mother liked to keep me up to date on the lives of all of her friends’ successful offspring- especially the ones she knew I couldn’t stand.
“Drink? Eula?” Jake’s gung-ho voice broke into thoughts.
“Sure, I guess so,” I sighed. “Where to?”
“I know this awesome Irish pub on Seventh Avenue. Supposedly they have the freshest Guinness in the city. Let’s go, I’m buying!”
And with that, I was off to go get drunk with Jake Fuckin’ Shinman.
In Midtown.
During peak commuter hour.
Dear god. This was not at all where I thought the night would take me.