There are certain totals that I don’t want to know. I don’t want to know how much money I’ve spent in Starbucks. I don’t want to know the number of packs of cigarettes that I’ve smoked. I don’t want to know my lifetime total of beers consumed. These are numbers that would depress me because I can only assume that they are high, higher than I’d like.
I’m thinking about this because I went to a bar called Walter’s after my improv show tonight. And I’ll add to that list, number of hours that I’ve spent in Walter’s. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a great place but if you compare that lifetime total to, say, hours spent in church, there is a clear winner and St. Peter is not happy.
Walter’s is where everyone from our theater goes after shows. I’ve been around long enough to see our go-to spot become Walter’s. It used to be The Triple Crown or Mustang Sally’s. Then it was Smithfield for a brief time. A bar moving next door to the theater couldn’t even usurp Walter’s. (Its nine dollars per pint price range certainly didn’t hurt in this regard.)
In its current incarnation Walter’s is a sports pub but when I first went to Walter’s it was a dive (there was a big remodeling job done on it… um… I don’t know how long ago). I don’t think they had taps for beer, you only ordered bottles. And if you ordered a Guinness, they had this contraption to give it its Guinness-y bubbles. It was odd. The walls were faux brick linoleum and there was a pool table but I never wanted to challenge anyone playing.
For all the talk of New York losing its edge and becoming too safe, there is still one area that is still reasonable sketchy and that is Broadway between 23rd and 32nd and west until you hit the Highline. There are a significant number of homeless people out sleeping. There’s a methadone clinic a block away. It’s right by Penn Station and a constant parade of godforsaken Rangers fans. (Okay, the neighborhood is fine, just let me have my moment.) That’s where my theater is. It’s where Walter’s is.
When people write about the Beats, they talk about the places they hung out. The San Remo. Cedar Tavern. Journalists hung out at the Lion’s Head and Louie’s in Sheridan Square. If someone ever wrote a book about the improv scene in New York City, Walter’s would certainly turn up. (McManus would probably get mentioned first because of the damn UCB but whatever, let me have my moment.)
It’s also come up recently that I do improv with people that haven’t watched Cheers and don’t know its references (not even Norm). In the past week, I’ve had to explain to two people that Frasier was a spinoff of Cheers. Ever thus to forty somethings. I loved Cheers as a kid but could never understand the conceit. You go to a bar or restaurant where people know you? How often do you have to go there for that to happen?
Well, I can’t put a precise number on it but at least once a week for a couple of year should do you.
It’s not just that I’ve spent a lot of time there. We all have and that’s what makes it. I can walk past it at any time and there’s a fifty-fifty shot that I know someone in there. It’s that it’s part of my New York.
New York is actually a pretty small city when you live here. Infinite possibility limits you to fewer places. You have home, work, a subway stop, a significant other’s place, a coffee shop, a bar. (Eh, two or three bars.)
A lot of experience is really just the accumulation of hours. I was just thinking of that tonight in a place where I’ve spent a lot of them. And everybody doesn’t know my name but, like, a third of the people do and that’s a lot.
