Get Lost!
If you really wanted to hide Jimmy Hoffa you'd take him to West 36th Street, between Eighth and Ninth Avenues, where dollar-slice pizza joints abut a no-tell hotel and a church drowning in pigeon poop. At the western end, there's a signless storefront with a door falling off its hinge. It's beyond nondescript, a spot that could house a numbers hall or an ersatz squat. The storefront's smudged window, though, contains the key clue: a neon Budweiser sign nearly as old as neon.
"That's the type of bar where you can disappear," a stranger said one day, motioning to the sign.
At the time, my roommate was ambling behind said gentleman. Words piqued ears, and I was later relayed the story.
"No one will ever find you," he said. "It's like falling off the face of the earth."
Well, not the earth so much, but maybe Manhattan. España en Llamas (Spain in Flames) is a few exhaust-choked blocks from the Lincoln Tunnel. After side-stepping the road-raged honkers, shuffle into the dive bar's matching, Twix-shaped room and sniff. It's Eau de Grandma Cats. Some people may be disturbed by the scent; I find it nostalgic, a memory of a happier time, before people needed alcohol to smile.
My first visit to España, I desperately need help turning my frown upside down. It's a rough, subway-door-in-the-face day. I sit at the bar-a shiny, laminated affair leopard-spotted with cigarette burns-and catch the bartender's attention. She has a mane of black hair and a body like a seal at the Central Park Zoo.
"What's cheap?" I ask.
"Coors Light and Bud," she says in thick, accented English that would sound at home in Guadalajara, Mexico. She holds up four fingers. "Heineken and Corona cost five." She extends another finger, completing the international high-five symbol.
I order a Coors Light. The bartendress twists off the cap with a napkin. To my right, several men argue in Spanish about baseball, letting fly "Mickey Mantle" and "Alex Rodriguez." To my left, women with tired eyes and infectious laughs sip Coors Light on the rocks, with a lemon twist. A TV offers a spoken-in-Spanish newscast, while the jukebox pumps out ranchero music and hip-shaking lust songs. It's a consoling, no-frills scene where no one asks your name. Sometimes it's preferable to ignore my fellow humans and drink in peace.
After a couple more Coors, I make a full-bladder discovery: a bathroom to rival Mars Bar's for sheer crapitude. The walls are a cracked blue-white, peculiarly splatter-stained and hole-filled, as if a man has rampaged with his rectangular fist. The tile is as black as a coal miner's lung. A roll of tp sits on top of the toilet, which is sparkling clean. Explain that dichotomy, buster.
Whereas that evening's mood is low-key, a Friday night finds España in celebration mode. Nelly's "Hot in Herre" is pulsating, and a couple low-cut female customers display their cleavage. They're pre-partying for a concert at nearby Hammerstein Ballroom.
"Drink up girls," says a red-shirted concertgoer. "Guns N' Roses are setting up." Soon, both the girls and their booze are gone.
I order a vodka and cranberry. Tonight's bartendress-inky black turtleneck and ponytail-grabs a fist-size tumbler. She fills it with ice, then pours Absolut for long enough to make me yawn. The damage is five bucks, a terrific price for top-shelf liquor. Down two of these before heading to the Hammerstein, and you're ready to rock.
Or tolerate España's clientele. In the darkened rear room, which is stocked with mountains of Budweiser cases, construction workers gather 'round a video-poker machine. A middle-aged couple sits beside them, tongue-kissing. Are they adulterers? Who knows. Who will find out?
España, located in this no-man's land, might as well be a foreign country. One of the lesser-visited locales, like Luxembourg. Sure, you may not speak the language, and the natives can be off-putting. But like all foreign lands, España is liberating. You're free of constraints and the critical glare of conformity. Kick back some budget-priced Jack Daniels and sing along to salsa music. Or sink into the night, an imperceptible fly on the wall, drinking Coors Light on the rocks just like the locals will long after you disappear.
No phone