During some of the earlier weeks of my time here in Raleigh, I frequented a fantastic establishment on Hargett Avenue, The Raleigh Times. I was introduced to it by a friend and former colleague. On any evening of the week, the place was brimming with men from the barely-drinking-aged NC State students in their trendy Sanuco flip flops (Who, other than someone whose frontal lobe is not fully developed, spends $60 on flip flops?) to the big city, suit-wearing business and government workers. The bar is in the hub of downtown, easily accessible within walking distance of anywhere, and has an inviting atmosphere and outside seating. I fell in love immediately.
I vascillate from being totally awkward in social situations (I think I may have mentioned this before) to being quite a social diva. I'm not sure what inspires either although I suspect it's linked with my lifelong mental illness and alcohol intake. The Raleigh Times was like Cheers. While everybody did not know my name, it felt like they did. I had no problem from the beginning of saddling up to the bar and sitting alone. Conversation was plentiful with my bar-hugging commrades. On the evenings when I wasn't particularly in a conversational mood, I would sit cross-legged and jot down thoughts on a beer coaster. One such evening, I was seated outside watching the groups of people interact. The weather was splendid. I had a delicious hefe-weizen and a french dip sandwich.
There was a table of men seated in front of me. They were reinacting the events of a soccer game. Boisterous laughter, bantering, it was a stereotypical man-fest. There seemed to be a leader of this pack, a loud, older (by older, I mean not a mid-twentysomething I'm usually trailing after) man in business casual attire. I immediately deemed him and asshole. Until he invited me to their table and bought me another hefe-weizen. I enjoyed partaking in the fun. I have always been able to relate to male friends better than females. We talked about the one man getting married in August (I'm convinced he and his bride will absolutely melt in the heat here then), the other man's love for chicken wings (He's a match made in heaven for my lady friend, Aja, who is also a connisseur of fine wings), more soccer. The subject of chocolate and dessert came along. Can you see my new test for potential partners? The leader, who will soon earn the moniker Burgerman at work, advised me to skip the bar cake, he would take me to a pie specialty shop. I'm adventurous and he didn't give me the creeps so I ventured off. The pie shop was closed, so we went to the next dessert place, closed as well. But then we noticed the area's one and only gourmet chocolate shop. Closed. But I did make a mental note to go back there. While I can guarantee it will be no Chocolate Lounge, I can say it will hold me over until I make another visit west.
We ended up back in the heart of downtown at his friend's (the chicken wing guy) family-owned Italian restaurant. We had wine and tiramizu. Then we ventured off to another establishment and ordered more wine. That's when the call came in from his nephew. His nephew is one of those idiot teenagers going balls-out in his first year of college. His car had been booted for illegal parking and he needed a $90 money order. His wallet was in Burlington. Burgerman had just bailed him out of jail a couple of weeks before for stealing DVDs from Walmart (I ask, "Who does this?"... but then I remember his 18-year-old-I-have-a-whole-in-my-frontal-lobe mind and digress). I vow to give him an appropriate amount of shit when we see him. Apparently this is not his first boot and is actually a representation of over a dozen parking tickets. I know you have a hole in your brain, but you can read and the Thou-Shalt-Not-Park-Here signs are quite obvious.
We go to one after-hours convenience store after another. I've only seen stores like these on movies about cities. All sorts of personalities festoon the city at night and these places beg for the creme de la creme. We came up empty handed in the downtown establishments, so we ventured out closer to campus where we discovered a neat little store specializing in beer, blunts, and incense. It's practically on the State campus, so one can see why the selection had a focus, although I felt it was shockingly lacking in munchie-like items. Where were the Fun-yuns?
Now prior to this I discovered that Burgerman has a love for reggae, so much that his dog is named after Bob Marley and dons a Rastafarian-inspired collar. Naturally, he bought us both incense with his money order. By the time we liberated his asshole nephew from the confines of Boot-dom, it was just shy of 2 a.m. And it was Monday.
Burgerman would have a brief, special place in my life, but alas, remember the reggae-guru-named pooch? Well, he has a starring role in this saga.
Stay tuned for part deux. And remember my first impression. Always listen. My mind, even in it's crazy, rather defective nature, has never steered me wrong... if only I would listen.
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