Highland Avenue reeked of red curries, sugar-crusted gulab jamun desserts and frosted Asian fruit drinks called lassis served in shallow white styrofoam cups but by three in the afternoon, the smell of 99 proof whiskey had sunk into the street in front of the Highland Irish Inn.
A pair of pockmarked doors marred by years of fights, angry outbursts and layers of brown paint separated a population of turban-clad, sari-wearing, Bengali-speaking immigrants from the four elderly African-Americans who have created a time capsule of 1970’s New York in blackface.
“We ain’t Irish, baby” laughed Anna Marie Scott, the Highland Irish Inn’s bartender. “The owner and his kids are, but that’s it.”
Two elderly couples sipped bourbon under a washed-out photo of owner Marty Brown as the sun began to set. Brown, an Irish immigrant, has owned the bar for decades. He has become almost invisible there except for his photograph.
“He comes in from 6am to 8am and then he’s gone,” Scott said.
“He’s a really nice guy and you don’t find too many nice Irishmen, you know what I mean?”
An older African-American man everyone called Eddie, cocked his hat and stared at a glass of Jim Beam through the web of his fingers. He had just played the lottery and lost
“I would have had five thousand dollars if it’d come up straight,” he complained to no one in particular. “Five thousand’s not a lot but it sure would’ve made me feel good.”
The heavily made-up woman who sat next to him sipped a vodka tonic careful not to waste a drop. She avoided eye contact with Eddie and chose to stare at the flat screen television across the bar where Steve Martin’s “The Jerk” played in silence.
“Hey Eddie,” croaked a man seated near the leaky sink in the back of the bar. “You ever heard of the bird of paradise?”
The woman watching television stopped to look back at the man. Ice melted and clinked in her glass.
The man got up from his barstool and took a swig of brown liquid before he placed his hand on Eddie’s shoulder.
“It means that all good things will come to you in life,” he said. “I
I hope you get all the best in life, man.”
He and Eddie shared a silent smile before the door swung open and rattled the photos, white balloons and tinsel that passed for Christmas decorations. An African-American man in paint-covered jeans too short for his long legs pulled a hand through his massive gray afro.
As he walked to the back of the bar, Anna-Marie began yelling.
“No, man! No!”
Everyone seated at the bar froze with shock.
“You need to get out, now!” she wailed.
The afro-man stopped in his tracks looking confused.
“Can’t I just use the bathroom?” he asked.
The man who spoke about the “bird of paradise” raised a gold-ringed hand and gestured to the door.
“The lady said that you have to leave,” he said. “Now go.”
The man with the afro lingered for a moment before he turned to leave. The little crowd laughed as the door slammed shut.
“He’s strung out on that crack,” Anna-Marie said pouring Eddie a drink. “The last time I let him use the bathroom he just messed it up so bad that now I only let my friends and people I know use it,” she said winking to the foursome at the bar.
Just then, the song “Tell It Like It Is” came on the jukebox.
The man with the ringed fingers reached out to the woman next to them. He held her close as they danced slow.
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