One of those orphaned by Elaine's demise, who holds forth weekly from behind his philosopher-bartender's post at Behind the Stick, set out on a scouting mission to seek another bar that he and his kindred spirits might collect on those nights when man and woman must seek out dark-paneled fraternity, and in doing so sacrificed himself to the sopping rain:
...[S]couring that very same neighborhood which is conveniently my neighborhood (I didn?t want to crawl too far after my recon mission), I checked out a couple of joints on the upper eastside. Hopeful replacements. And the very first place that I spotted which looked from the outside not too bad inside, only had only three or four people at the bar, none of whom, I surmised, would ever be our orphans. Because first off, the music in the joint was so fucking loud, so piercingly, moronically loud that I could barely hear myself think let alone drink. Which brings me to the second problem I had� getting a drink! The Irish guy behind the stick had to be told by a customer that I was sitting there. For almost three minutes! How bad is that? I could see if he?d had a full bar to handle but only three or four people? C?mon, man. And when he did come over he never said a word, just dropped down a bev nap, folded his arms and waited. Like I was in the wrong. Hey, when I see I?ve kept a customer waiting (inadvertently, stupidly or otherwise), the first thing out of my mouth is, ?Sorry to keep you waiting.? It?s the right thing to do. But not this guy.
So I ordered a Ketel and soda, which he mixed and placed in front of me, then walked back down to the customer who?d pointed me out. And still without a word as though I were invisible. Now I didn?t expect him to gleefully ask me, after he?d set down the drink, if I wanted to pick out furniture Saturday morning, but a simple ?Hello? or ?Fuck you? would?ve been nice. And in a way it?s too bad. Because I normally enjoy shooting the breeze with bartenders, and so do other bartenders, it?s a way of comparing war stories from a common battlefield. But not here. Which is why I only had one and left two dollars. Normally I?d leave a sawbuck even for a coke.
Running through the raindrops now, both figuratively and actually, I stopped at another joint up the road which seemed to be more of a sports bar than a real meeting place. So it never got my business or ?expert? analysis. And I should add in all sincerity, there?s nothing wrong with places like that, I?ve had my share of drinks in them, it?s just not what I had in mind for our wandering orphans.
And the rain kept pouring.
Which I could see was going to sorely shorten my recon mission. For I?m a dedicated man when it comes to a cause but I?m not any martyr by a long shot, there will be other nights for this I figured. But there were three more places not far away I could get to without my scuba gear, so I decided to take one more shot before giving up. But, alas...
It is like the end of a tragic film noir, the darkening rain wetly drumming the message of despair, and yet the quest will continue as long as Scrib has a dry change of clothes, and perhaps that welcoming bar is yet to be found, though it will never be another Elaine's, because there will never be another Elaine.
Source: http://www.vanityfair.com/online/wolcott/2011/06/the-rain-from-elaine-falls-mainly-on-the-pain.html
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