Off hours

I can barely hide my excitement as I rush to catch the N to Astoria where, I imagine, my friends already sit around a table drinking Eastern European beer whose names we can’t pronounce. Once a week, the odd group composed of two men and two women gather around at different points around the city to recount the weekly adventures as p55 fellows.

Only two weeks before, I waited outside of Shake Shack, nervous that no one would show up to my first planned NYC event. Like a boy preparing the punch before his first house party, I kept glancing at my watch to make sure for the fourth time that I still had a few minutes to prepare. Is my stance right, does my hair flow, and are my clothes still pressed? Not long after, the four of us sat enjoying our fries and hamburgers, relieved to have loosened our work clothes and accidentally stained some of them with ketchup.

Today, when I arrive to the Bohemian Beer Garden, I get carded despite the fact that I can claim to have some stubble and start to walk toward the backyard park when Sarah, the first arriver, waves at me from the bar. We walk together to the tables outside and sit with our bodies braced for the autumn chill. The other two fellows stroll in with their friends and before long each side of the table laughs at different tales being shared, narratives only interrupted in order to decide who will buy the next pitcher. Peale just finished a 10k in the mud, Paul decides to plan the Brooklyn Bowl Fest, our next event, and Sarah worries about what she will cook the next weekend- meatballs or chicken soup. By 6 the wind, subtly piercing in the eve’s wake, makes us draw close as we say goodbye until the next week.