The Old Pink

It has frozen a slice of time so that you can walk into a piece of your past, the shivery excitement of either walking into a possible bar fight or a slide across the floor on a puddle of Miller's. Oh, those 7 ounce Miller's splits, three for a dollar.  Heavens.  I don't even like beer, but it was a cute way of drinking out of the little bottles, like you were playing dolls and here were doll-sized beers.  "Now lay down and have a nap, Thumbelina, Mommy is cracking open a cold one."

Actually, you couldn't slide on the floor unless you went straight down and even then, someone would catch you since it was so packed.  This is The Pink Flamingo, as it was called, and a good way to end a night out with the crowd.  Now it's referred to as The Pink, and I guarantee you will not find a friendlier dive bar in town.

We decided to go for a drink after some crazy purse shopping at KMart, of which I had not been in for years; I avoid it as the one near me usually looks like a bomb went off in it and a few of the employees appear to have plates in their heads with matching silverware.  But I was pleasantly surprised at the success my friend had, and she then showed me where there are good jewelry deals.  Really, I thought, and then saw the $2,449.00 gold chain for sale in the case.  KMart sells $2,000 dollar chains?   Yup.  Other pieces also carried labels for hundreds, hundreds of dollars, right next to the aisle where you can buy stick-on plastic tiger fingernails.  It was too much, and I am always glad to get out of there, for somehow that particular store latches onto my psychic aura and has tried to jump me in the Electronics Department.  I have evidence that the store is a breathing organism, with the staff as it's minions doing the bidding of Cthulu the Unspeakable.

We were ready and headed for the part of the city called Allentown, originally an area of cow pastures but now the Bohemian hub of the city.  Once gentrified, it has gotten a reputation for being a rougher part, there are no illusions on Allen Street.  First of all, you must have your ninja driving license for there is parking on both sides of the very narrow street and so it always looks like you're headed into oncoming traffic.  But every knows this, and mostly take their turns without scraping off the side mirror.

At the corner is the apartment building where the Bubble Man lives....haven't seen much of him, only once this summer.  He thought a way to make people happy was to blow bubbles out his window and there would be billows of bubbles weaving in and out of traffic in rainbow iridescence.  It was historic.

One of the trickier things is to find a parking spot.  Yes, there are cross streets, but they are all one way leading into Allen so you have to find the block before and then sluice down wherever which landmark you would like to end your journey at.  The homes are enchanting, gingerbreaded, creaky tales with enormous tree roots pushing up the sidewalks.

We walked up the stairs in anticipation and entered a long, dark room with stools pushed up to the wooden bar.  Four men were sitting in front of a television and my friend and I went to the opposite end.  It was very dark, and an odd aroma redolent of bleach was permeating the atmosphere; the bartender came over, and we thought we would stay for one drink and then move on down the street to Gabriel's Gate, which has brighter lights and popcorn.

Having not seen us before, the bartender dropped by and asked if it was our first time in.  Oh, no no no, the both of us had been there in earlier incarnations, this was a trip through nostalgia.  "Well, welcome to The Pink," grinned the young man and raised a glass with us.  It was an eventful evening, for after other people filtered in, everyone talked to everyone else.  Drinks were bought for us, and conversation was happily argumentative and not brilliant.  Eventually, the bartender showed us his tatts, a Buddha on his chest, elaborate sleeves, and after my friend asked if he had any Jewish tattoos, he said yep and pulled up his pants leg.   Something in Hebrew.  The word "forever", perhaps.

This inked man, whose name was Chris, was commenting on how the bar has a rep for being friendly, and told us how a group of older women comes into the bar to watch General Hospital at two in the afternoon, Monday through Friday.  Rules, there are rules.  No one can talk while the program is on, only during commercials or you will be told to get the hell out.  This, happening in what was once one of the toughest bars in the city.

Now a crowd was coming in, younger folks, and Chris had to go to his next job down the street.  We hung out for a while, as the music ranged from Peter Tosh to X, then decided to say our farewells and trot over to The Gate for food.

One other thing about The Pink: toilet paper.  In the Ladies Room, each partition had at least seven rolls of toilet paper hanging on a clothesline running through the center of each roll.  Do you know how reassuring that is?  It was a lovely, considerate gesture, along with the layers of graffiti that would hypnotize an archeologist.

So we went and had wings and a tuna melt, then found the way back to the car.  Now, my friend was wearing her biker jacket and boots and across the way a man was singing a one o'clock in the morning song, loudly.  Very explicit words, making it up as he went along.  We walked by and got caught up in his impromptu rap and the leather boots and jacket became verse number 27.  My friend was so tickled she let him know with an appreciative yell back.  He said thank you.  I couldn't see where he was because I was focused on where the curbs were, and grabbed her arm tighter in case I had to pull her out of some Allen Street paramour's line of vision if he came over to introduce his cray cray self.  My adrenaline was getting ready to administer a beat down, when she told me that he was inside a house, just hanging out a window.  Oh.  Thank god, for these days I couldn't knock over a french fry, but I pretended to put my super powers on hold anyhow.  You're lucky this time, Rapper Nutjob Guy; to infinity and beyond.

The night was damp with drizzling rain, we missed most of it by luck and timing, and yet it was as phantasmagoric and thick with night breezes as any walk in the dark could be.  Something clicks in the human mind during the hours after sunset, whether fomented by stories, cultural training, or an outer zeitgeber pushing the temporal rhythm towards night.  Our vision is limited, so our other senses are heightened; hearing and touch, and the air is filled with odors made clearer.  Is it the sensory input that provokes night behavior?  It was a different world on Allen Street after dark; during the day, it's dress and antique shops.

The moon was a sliver run over by clouds, winter is coming, dark has its rule.  Stand at your outside door and breathe in the sharp air of the coming snows, the tannins of the dying leaves; breathe in as an animal, and learn your world.  Sleep well and sleep deeply, dear friend, the moon will set as it rounds the horizon, then will descend further to the other side of the planet as it travels before the constellations of Pegasus and Sagitta.  Lay still, be warm.  Good night.