One quick drink (Human Pursuits 4/6/22)
On a Saturday night in Scottsdale Arizona: Part Two
SCOTTSDALE, AZ — We walked past the string lit patio and into the warm din of the restaurant lobby. It was Saturday night and Diego Pops was busy but not packed. Tan twenty-somethings sat talking over charred skirt steak tacos and Pacificos. In the lobby, a few other parties lingered, all of them young and thin. Outside, the string lights punctuated the inky blue sky over Old Town. Kevin approached the tan twenty-something hostess and asked what the wait was looking like for a table for four. She glanced down at the computer screen near her waist before scanning around the restaurant. “About 30 minutes,” she said brightly. He told her that was fine and gave her his phone number. The restaurant would text us when our table was ready.
It had been almost an hour since our last drink back at the condo, and Kevin and Shomas were eager to ride the familiar rush of rosé and friendship straight on til morning. “There’s a place just around the corner from here,” said Kevin, moving for the door. “Let’s go there and get a drink while we wait.” We exited the restaurant and onto the dusty crowded sidewalk lining Scottsdale Avenue. College girls in plastic looking Shein dresses congregated next to men in t-shirts and Vans, all of them tan and and (as far as I could tell) at least slightly buzzed. As we approached the intersection, several hundred yards from the restaurant, a neon flash tore through the street. It was carrying several passengers, all of them white. “Have you seen those?” asked Kevin, “Beer bikes!” As he said it, the bike whipped through the intersection, at a speed that contradicted the lazy peddling of her passengers. It leapt off the asphalt lining Scottsdale Avenue and onto the cobble stone street of the Fifth Avenue shopping district, resulting in a small but resounding crash. From the sidewalk I could see the passengers laughing, their teeth bared beneath the bike’s purple LEDs. The lighting was such that the rest of their face was cast in shadow, leaving black stretches where their eyes were supposed to be.
We followed the bike and the crowds onto Fifth Avenue past the silent store fronts with their terracotta roofs. As we walked, I noticed a display case full of Native American wares and jewellery: sterling silver bolo ties, glass beaded necklaces, colourful stone pendants. Overhead five evenly spaced American flags flapped silently in the evening breeze. “What are you doing back there?” inquired Leah from a few paces ahead. “Nothing,” I replied. I quickened my pace to catch up with the group, my pale complexion stalking me down the avenue like some Pacific Northwest spectre.
We cut diagonally through an empty square, past more restaurants and more string lights, until we arrived at Rockbar Inc. Kevin reassured us. “We’ll just have a quick one,” he said. “Might be cutting it close,” said Leah. I nodded my head in agreement but said nothing. The doorman at Rockbar asked for our IDs, but quickly waved us through when he realized we were from another country and the DOBs weren’t where he could easily find them. The bar spanned two storeys, with the ground level functioning as a sort of lounge. Rectangle in shape, and poorly lit, it felt cavernous compared to Diego Pops. Eight flat screen televisions fixed above the bar cast the space with cold blue light. Despite being Saturday, the room was quiet and I felt a sense of dread as we crossed the cavern floor. As we passed the bar, three or four patrons craned their necks, their unblinking eyes tracking our movement towards the back staircase, which we climbed to the second floor and Rockbar’s rooftop patio.
We found an open four top a few steps from the staircase door and quickly seated ourselves. Unlike the lizard lounge below, the rooftop was busy with college kids drinking beers at sticky tables in the open air and I was able to breathe a bit easier. From all directions you could see the tops of palm trees, their spiky fronds leaving dark blue indents on the moonlit sky. Kevin got up to grab some drinks from the tall tattooed woman standing behind the bar leaving me, Leah and Shomas to sit and chat. “We should have time for one drink before the table’s ready,” said Shom. I pulled out my disposable camera and asked if the two of them wanted a picture together. They pulled in close, both slightly tilting their heads and making a kissy face. I counted down from three and pressed the plastic button, sending a flash of white light out across the bar and over the desert. Across from us, two men sat at a table drinking beer beneath a thin set of string lights. They did not seem to register the flash.
Kevin returned carrying four glasses of beer and a round of drop shots. “Jägerbombs,” he said coyly. We laughed and dropped the shots, the brown Jägermeister bleeding out and into the golden Red Bull pools like some horrible environmental disaster; a tanker spill off the coast of Margaritaville. “Chin chin,” said Kevin. The medicine ran down our throats cool and herbal and sweet and it reminded me of how Will used to keep a bottle of Jäger in our freezer back in London. We put our empty glasses to the side and turned our attention to the murky orange beers before us. Leah eyed the drink silently, wheels turning. “Want me to grab you a vodka soda?” I asked. “Maybe,” she replied. “What’s the matter?” asked Shom. “Oh nothing, I just know Leah’s stomach doesn’t always love beer,” I explained. “I get tummy time” she said.
I got up and walked to the bar, where the tattooed bartender was still working at a frenetic clip. A set of hanging TVs behind showed sports highlights or maybe the news, the tendrils of light kissing her shoulders and making the black ink on her arms look grey. She turned and faced me. “What can I get you?” she asked. I told her “Vodka soda.” It was louder by the bar and I felt anxious and unable to meet her eye line. She free-poured the vodka about halfway up the cup, and then topped the rest off with soda water and a lime wedge on the rim. I pulled a ten dollar bill from our extremely secret money envelope and slid it into her hand. “Keep the change.” She put two bills into the tip jar as I walked back to the table, the blue light from the TVs fading into the background, but never extinguishing.
I handed Leah and the vodka soda and took my seat next to Kevin on the opposite side of the table. We all clinked glasses and took a sip. It was close to 10 pm and the desert moon was high and climbing higher, shifting the shadows that blanketed the landscape, making the mystical and unfamiliar terrain feel completely unrecognizable. Suddenly the table exploded in sound. Kevin’s phone was vibrating. It was a text from Diego Pops. “They’re ready for us” he said. Condensation was just beginning to collect on our still full glasses. Beads of sweat streaked down the side of the glass, leaving large rings on the table that would be gone by the next morning.
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