120 1/2 First Avenue, NYC. First table by the door, maybe three feet from the jukebox over which, late in the afternoon, I have control, Jonathan Richman, the Kinks, the Jam, Beatles '65, the Buzzcocks, Chicago blues, and doo-wop after doo-wop tune issuing into the bar that's characteristically so dark when I walk in I instinctively thrust out my hands, my eyes adjusting soon to find the always-friendly, always-laughing Linda who serves me a cold can of Schaefer beer (three bucks) that I take to the front table and and watch the people traffic as the songs slowly brighten the place, competing with the loud regulars up front who mistake my DeKalb Flying Corn t-shirt for the street in Brooklyn, for the street in the Bronx, they're everywhere! but as usual I duck the small talk to sit for a couple hours after an afternoon of work, to look out the window and to think and soak in the tunes and the three or so cans of Schaefer I'll drink and love, leaving regretfully across the creaking wood floor after Thanks! and See yas! out into the late-afternoon sunshine on the street which after the hospitality and quiet, friendly dark of the soothing International feels warm and vibrant, somehow more welcome.
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