There was a gentle warm breeze flowing in west from the bay this Saturday night. The neon blazing from the tall buildings sidling the streets of Downtown in a colorful, shimmery glow. The sidewalks bustled with foot traffic and the streets themselves were occupied by drivers trying to find parking so that they could themselves join the crowds looking for drinks, food, or companionship. Saturdays on nice nights like these, could offer a million opportunities for anyone to have a unique night, basking in the glow of heated exotic gases, trapped in glass tubes advertising bars and taverns. Beers and liquors. Women and men in various stages of undress. Tattoos and piercings. Shows being advertised with bright marquees that one would expect from small town USA in some rural area that didn't have a market big enough for a modern theater to show up. Shops and bodegas. Fancy restaurants providing fine dining next to small taquerias offering street tacos from a poorly painted, literal hole in the wall. Men and women outside of shops, or under an awning with a basic folding table, touting their cheaply made, Chinese goods. All with the sheen of the ever-present neon.
These streets were a bar hoppers dream. A drunk's financial downfall. A music lover's paradise. The fun, the fights, the hook-ups, the break ups, the meet ups, the music, the laughter, the crying, the drugs, the parties, the vomiting, the friends, the enemies, the strangers, the regulars, the outsiders, the misfits, the dead heads, the bikers, tha gangstas, the busy, the lazy, the homeless, the prostitutes, the well to do, the unfortunate, the creepy, the hustlers, the thieves, the crime, the sleaze, the good Samaritans and the ones who take advantage, the straight types, the shady types, the gay, the queers, the flamboyant, the unknowns. The complete spectrum of humanity, existing in this small microcosm created by capitalism, yet sustained by a culture that is exclusive to many, but at the same time, inclusive to all. This was a place to be. A place to feel alive. To be a part of the mélange of scents and booze and sounds and people. The incredible culture that almost felt like a violent version of high school that sold alcohol in the cafeteria. It had the power to make someone feel like they were a part of something much grander and richer than themselves, yet at the same time, to feel so insignificant as to be absolutely nothing.
This was a place Tristan often found himself wandering, with a lit cigarette in one hand and his phone in the other. Alone and in thought. Afraid at times, troubled about his chronic loneliness. The fact that he was always semi-sad. The rationalizations he made as to why he was in a shit mood whenever he was awake ranged from the absurd to the benign, never getting to the underlying mundaneness of wanting something else in life. He avoided the main streets during his emo jaunts to the next destination, always realizing his skinny jeans and black jackets didn't help his look. The homeless never accosted him, though, because he was familiar and wasn't rich. He lived in his own mental haze, replete with its own cacophony of bright lights and loud voices. The neon and marquees stopped affecting him long ago. The throngs of partiers never got in his way. You learned to navigate the sidewalks in front of the bars like a blind person navigates their own house. Sometimes he'll be staring at his phone, reading texts, and perusing social media about 'The Scene'. Learning who's playing, what's going down when, and who's hanging out where, weaving his way to the next place to depress him, while his friends fucked off life for a short while and got drunk and laid.
Many times, he'll be walking with his head down, deep in thought. Taking his time to absorb his downcast feelings and coming up with ways to give his friends shit. Giving shit to the ones you care the most about was sometimes the best therapy for his insecurity, other than booze. Something to get the most laughs and hopefully something that will stick. The best way to get back is to come up with an awesome nickname for a fucker friend that regulars will remember. Some of the best could cause a part of the crew to drop out of a few bars for weeks on end. Just ask Phisher. He learned to live with it. So does Tristan. That was a long-standing feud that involved many bloody noses and a few black eyes. Most likely more tears than any of them would admit to, also. That period of unrest almost broke the crew apart. Tristan and Phisher finally shook hands over the fabled blue felts of the pool tables at Doc Macho's to bring the crew back together, yet Phisher kept his name.
Tonight, he is meeting up with his friends. Some would say his crew. A ragtag bunch of early thirtysomethings that crawl these streets and call them their own. They are the regulars, local boys that grew up near Downtown and spent their lives living its myriad rules and regulations. Many work hard on the docks and warehouses that adjoin the harbor, unloading freight and servicing the trains. Some made something of themselves and work in the nearby skyscrapers, in offices and boardrooms, taking meetings and assuring shareholders. Nonetheless hating life as much as the people making less than half what they made a year. None of it matters when they meet up Downtown on the weekends. They are all the same friends that grew up together. The same shitheads that pulled pranks and stole beer. Fishing off the docks and having sleepovers. Some real stand-up guys. The kind you liked and could trust that they were only going to talk shit about you when you were around, and loudly for that matter, with howls of laughter from the rest of the crew and a strong cheer from the other regulars at any bar they all frequented.
They were Tristan's best friends and on many wasted nights, his worst enemies. Whether it was arguments he had to pick a side in or making sure that one of them didn't die from choking in their own vomit. Stopping fights or having his ass kicked for drunkenly suggesting something to the wrong girl. Tristan wasn't immune to any of these things. He was definitely one of the shitheads. We'll meet the top five very shortly. Not to say there aren't others. There is a top ten. He's a part of a lucky group that continued to tolerate each other past their twenties. An even luckier group, because they had Downtown to give them an escape from the banality of normal life, somewhere that gave them a power. They weren't who they were during the week amidst the almost choreographed bustle and hustle of Downtown. Getting laid in the rock bar, Tumbles, notoriously gross bathroom. (Sorry Phisher). Or getting extremely drunk matching tattoos of Thumper and Flower from Bambi on their butts. (Sorry again Phisher and Todd). They are the kind of rowdy douches you'd hate from afar, but after spending ten minutes hanging out with them, you'd be having the time of your life.