Sunday, 11 April 2004 | Dive bar

The bartender, who'd stuck her hand out and introduced herself as Fran, had dyed blond hair that was combed into wings on either side of her head, and she wore a white oxford shirt that hugged her generous proportions. She was frank but friendly, and told me she'd spent all of her life in New York, a claim supported by her distinct accent.

She revealed a few details about herself, like that she hates the city-wide smoking ban (she smokes Reds) and that she's proud of the fact that her establishment was included in a recently published guide to New York City dive bars. She seemed to know the other customers by name, and she chatted with them as if she sees them often. She didn't disturb the large woman who was asleep at the bar, whose head was pressed to the wood and sat like a heavy stone just next to a half-finished glass of white wine.

Martin pointed out the little hobo figurine near the cash register; not only did the artist of the figurine provide the little hobo with a bottle of booze, but someone on staff had also propped an airplane bottle against his body. He also noticed an aerosol can that had the words "Bullshit Repellent" stenciled across its metal body.

Scott pointed out the room toward the back that had a sign over the doorway that read, "The Judge's Chamber." He questioned Fran about it and learned that the mafia used to hang out in that room in the '30s and '40s. (After learning that, I stood in the room and tried to strip the walls of the past 70 years—years that had introduced fake wood paneling and thin synthetic carpet—but my imagination wasn't able to fully make the transformation.)

Danielle and I flipped through the pages of the jukebox and played literally all of the songs we thought weren't terrible (about fifteen of them). It was both challenging and refreshing. We played songs by Donna Summer and Tony Basil and Patsy Cline and Toto. We frowned at Scott when he played Phil Collins. We quietly sang along with Olivia Newton-John.

I went looking for Fran after she had disappeared for a several minutes. Instead of Fran, however, I found a woman in a a tiny room, standing in front of what looked like a video game, chain-smoking (which I guess was easier to get away with in the back room).

"Get in here!" she said as soon as she saw me. "I'm not havin' much luck, and you're my new good luck charm!"

"Okay, sure." (I didn't bother mentioning that I don't believe in luck.) It was then that I saw the she was playing electronic poker, in which you earn credits rather than money.

I know very little about poker (I'm no gambler), so she told me what buttons to press: Bet. Discard. Draw. I seemed to be having no effect on her luck.

"I don't mean to be rude, orderin' you around and all. My name's Roseanne. What's yours?"

When her bad luck continued, she confessed that the poker machine "loves boobs." She proceeded to press her fully-clothed chest up to the screen of the machine and then stepped away again. "Okay, press the button now."

We won the next two hands.

Scott subsequently rescued me, and we all headed home, Soft Cell playing on the jukebox in our wake.