“In Penny Lane there is a barber showing photographs
Of every head he’s had the pleasure to know
And all the people that come and go
Stop and say hello”
The song plays on as five young finance brokers surround the jukebox, confused at whosoever decided that The Beatles’ Penny fucking Lane was the best soundtrack to the scene, clamoring to replace it with Sinatra. Their shoes make a shhk ffffk sound as the layer of floor scum sticks to their soles. That molasses sticker-peel noise performs its unnatural staccato louder around the bathroom doors, as a 10-person line shuffles from left foot to right foot, waiting longer than usual for the 400-pound gentlemen who entered the sole lavatory five minutes ago to finish whatever ungodly business must be done. The stickiness simmers off the further you tread from the back of the venue, the vinyl floor turning into a probably-fake, possibly-so-well-varnished-for-no-good-reason wood that either way is more blanketed in dust than plastic skin-flake.
The bottom-right corner leg on my table is one millimeter shorter than the other three. I assume it was a manufacturing mistake, not even considering the truth: Back in March 2007, a 48 year-old woman (who later blew a 9.7 on a breathalyzer) had thrown the table towards the bar in the direction of the bartender after being denied a tenth Long Island iced tea. One could forgive my ignorance, since the bar had since stopped serving Long Island iced teas. The difference in flooring is more apparent, and I noticed it even on my first visit to the bar. On my third, I had asked Sandy, the bartender (from 2024, not the poor victim from 2007) why this was the case. Sandy left her post, saying she would ask the owner, and proceeded to go smoke in the alley. She returned with a made-up story about the ceiling collapsing a number of years ago (she failed to specify what year or what caused said roof to collapse), damaging the then-completely wooden floor. I, though deluged with more questions than answers, decided not to press the situation further, as I intended on banging this bartender, if not that night, then shortly thereafter, although I myself was not entirely specific on the timeline. The goal was ultimately fulfilled on January 11 of the following year, from 2:06-2:09 am, and kicked off the worst year of my life so far, but only the third worst of Sandy’s.
The clock hanging above the bar is one of five strung around the building. The first one visible upon entering the bar is the oldest and most refined, being a wooden wall-clock constructed in a Michigan plant in 1979. It was sold under the Bulova brand and first owned by Georgia Plant of Long Island, passed onto her daughter in 1988, sold via yard sale in 1994 to Isaiah Freeman, who then moved to DUMBO, clock in hand. Freeman befriended Mark Jonathan Davis, better known under his stage name Richard Cheese, shortly upon arriving in the City, and became his manager for a brief period from 1995 to 1997. Freeman’s tenure suddenly ended when Davis/Cheese took the clock from Freeman’s office wall and threw it at him, signifying an end to the business relationship. The clock survived the assault on its life, requiring only superficial repairs. Freeman’s death in 2008 from bronchitis complications resulted in the ornate clock going for sale once again, finally becoming the possession of one Craig Felton, who found it a fitting decoration for the bar he planned to run at the venue he had purchased three weeks previously.
The other four clocks are plastic and bought from Amazon. Craig would replace them regularly and last year purchased them with a gift card his mother-in-law, the blood mother of Sandy, gave him last Christmas. It is one of these that falls on Sandy’s head just as one of the finance bros slammed his fist on the jukebox in proud frustration that it had eaten one of his dollars.
