Nice night

Elbows on the bar, I leaned forward and looked at my friends, fatigue and boredom etched into every face. We watched the baseball scores stream across a handful of TVs, trying to pick out the final score of the game we'd just seen. The Nationals lost.

We left at the top of the 11th, needing to use the bathroom and unwilling to navigate the treacherously steep steps more often than necessary. Tied at one, the game seemed destined to an interminable rotation of at bats and fielding and as much as we enjoyed the night, the temperature started to drop.

We had already enjoyed peanuts and hot dogs, warm, light beers and the soda in a souvenir cup. We cheered on the racing presidents. We threw our arms into the air for a wave that petered out behind home plate. Several times. We were done.

One friend stormed off, unconvinced by our decision to wait for the crowd to dissipate for a minute or two as the teams changed position.

"Are you going to sit here for another minute or 15 or 20?" she asked, slipping into the straps of the backpack.

"No. About five. We would just rather watch baseball for a minute than stand in a line in a bathroom where women need to learn to hover and aim. Hover and aim."

"Well, I’m leaving," she announced and stomped down the aisle and the stairs.

"Oh, watch the stairs," we murmured, aware of the danger ahead but she navigated them safely in her angry rush.

We left a couple of minutes later, hitting the now empty bathroom on our way out of the park and walking the mile or so to my house.

"The difference between this and New Orleans," offered Celeste, "is that I would never walk through a park in New Orleans after dark. There would be people shooting up."

We meandered through Lincoln Park, empty but for a couple of statues and a man with a pair of retrievers. We stopped by my house for a minute or two, and I unpacked Superman and the free visor from my purse. I considered changing clothes, shirts, looking a little less baseball and a little more bar, but it didn't matter. We walked to the Capitol Lounge.

Downstairs, the cigar bar was filled with men in suits and a bartender I didn't want to see. We stood in the door, looked around and decided to go upstairs. The side bar was full but not crowded. A homogeneous group of professional 20- and 30-somethings didn't seem all that interested in anything other than the sports on the screens and themselves.

One group of overdressed people practiced PDA in the middle of the bar. We decided that the couple stapled to each other must be celebrating their engagement. The girl on the chair seemed to be the sister of the groom-to-be. The girl in the halter dress: the desperate and soon to be drunk friend. The girl in the kimono: jealous and single.

Of course, we had no confirmation. The girl's left arm curled protectively around the man with whom she cuddled. We never saw a ring. We made our observations based on profiles – the same jaw line, the same nose. Double fisted beers and a look of misery. An inappropriately short dress, made shorter by stance. We might have been completely wrong but we were bored. We had nothing better to do.

All of those who had planned to meet up were decidedly drunk by the time we left the game, too inebriated to meet us at the bar. Jess peeled off early, tired and planning for an early morning drive to the airport. Kayla, we left at the corner by her house. Celeste and I, my friend from New Orleans and house guest extraordinaire, walked through the Hill talking.

Dive bar with a club scene. Brunch place. Gay country bar. Irish pub. Lesbian dance club. Marine barracks. I pointed out local landmarks or she pointed them to me, trying to figure out the scene.

Outside the Ugly Mug, I ran into a man I used to know. A friend of mine that I hadn't seen in at least a year. I waved. We hugged. He offered to buy us a drink, so we went inside. At that point, the night changed. Halfway through drinks from my friend, another man walked up to us and asked what tab we were using, he wanted to get himself a drink under my name.

It took me a second or two and I realized that it was another friend, a man I hadn't seen in a year and a half, maybe two. I had skipped his going away party to pick up Celeste at the airport Friday night.

"So, you guys dated?" asked a friend of the friend.

"What? No," I replied. The man looked confused, the friend stammered. I clarified. "We made out once."

"I call that dating."

"I don't, but OK," I said.

"She's a great kisser," the friend said. "High five!"

We drank and talked, talking more than drinking, moving from bar to table and swapping stories. The friend moves to London in a month. At some point, my brother showed up, larger than life. We chatted a while and the other men left.

My brother stayed for a minute or 10 before trying to call his friend who planned to meet us and heading out into the dark night. The friend walked in a minute later.

"Of course, he left. I knew that would happen."

"He did try to call you," I said in my brother's defense.

We hung for a while with this friend of my brother, this friend of mine, who stayed with me when he first moved to DC – my brother in the guest room, the friend on the couch in my tiny apartment. It took a while to recover from the experience but we're all friends now. He joined us and bought us a beer, the country Texas boy chatting up the Louisiana girl.

He left in search of a cigarette and ended up at a table of Marines outside. We finished our beers and headed home, stopping to take our leave. Stopping for a hug or two. As we walked away, I heard one of the soldiers exclaim "Nice" in reference to us, but I am not sure how. We didn't turn to look.

It summed up my feelings, though. A long, lovely evening with friends. Baseball. Walking. Innocuous flirting with attached male friends. Free drinks. Good conversation.

Nice.


Tag: Bars Baseball Friends Washington DC