I have lived in New York for six years but have only recently realized that I have never gone to a bar completely alone, until last night.

After viewing a zen yet very screwed-up potential new apartment situation, the night was sort of young, and I was in a strange mood: ¼ socially self-experimental, ¼ curious and, having just gotten back from my extended gig-stay in the non-night-life town of Long Branch, NJ (unless you count the Raceway Diner on Route 36), ½ in dire need to get out of the house.

So, I decided to kick it solo in one of Williamsburg’s most excellent live music bars. I had only four intentions: to have a drink, a smoke, hear music, and not meet an emotionally unavailable asshat, or at least not take him home.

I lingered outside the bar, which was packed, talking on the phone with a girlfriend in the neighborhood. I was having last-minute doubts and decided to invite her, but she was preparing for an audition, which made me wonder if I should go home and do the same. But there was no audition the next day, only a potential improvisation in the now.

I hung outside, eyeing the scene and previewing the music. I realized I was either unintentionally or intentionally making eye contact with other people sniffing around, like some unspoken language. Was I a cliché? I realized that I, too, was sniffing. I got off the phone, smirked, and took out a cigarette. Alas, I didn’t have a lighter.

A tall man with orange/auburn stubble, a devilish U-shaped smile, and donning a green holiday top hat, came to my assistance. I looked at his face and for a second thought it was this guy I dated last year named Geoff, an emotionally unavailable asshat grad student earning an MA in Storytelling from my alma mater. Thankfully, I was wrong. Top Hat was new in town, brand new. He was on a medical clerkship at a hospital. He was also quite tipsy.

“Are you engaged?” He asked. I realized I had my treasured ring on the engagement finger.

“Oh, no, definitely not,” I said. I’d better switch the finger.

After some small talk, I told Top Hat that I was going inside for the show. He followed and bought me a wine inside the venue. I reminded myself that men go to bars to happily buy women drinks. Top Hat’s friend, we’ll call him Bhavesh, then approached.

“Do you have any cute friends?” Asked Bhavesh. I looked at him funny.

“Well, he assumes I’m with you,” said Top Hat.

“Oh, no,” I said. “Not here.”

Within minutes, and eyeing an elevated clear spot from which I could see and hear the band, a spirited blues/jazz/funk quintet which I was digging, I split from Top Hat and Bhavesh. I kept sharing glances with this brooding, dark-haired 34-ish solo man hidden in a heavy coat. I realized that a couple weeks ago I had the same, odd, unspoken interaction with that very man on the J Train. I wondered if he had as strong a memory as I did.

But my glances were cut off by the approach of Blondie, an animator from Iowa. I remembered that men also go to bars to approach women, especially if they are alone. Blondie was quite refreshing in his no-frills approach. Figured, he was a Taurus. But he, too, was tipsy. His iPhone rang: “JANE HOME,” it said. I knew what was happening. This man was obviously waiting for someone else to arrive and occupying himself in the meantime. I was nobody’s back-up, so I pulled away slightly.

Brooding J-train man then shot over another look which seemed to read “Oh, I guess you’re ignoring me…” Brooding J-Train and I are obviously too passively seductive and stubborn in our demeanors to actually cross paths. But maybe it will happen in the future, if we are forced to talk to each other, like if I fell onto him on an unexpected HALT on the M-train next week, and stomped on his toe.

I excused myself from Blondie to attain much-needed water from the bar.

I was tapped. “Can I ask you something?” Asked (let’s call him Raul) a hoodlum with gold chains who simply did not belong in this hood. “What do you think about a guy who is stuck on his ex-girlfriend?” I paused, then burst out laughing. I was suddenly flashed back to my earlier-that-day conversation with my roommate, a sensitive soul who revealed he was still in love with his Ex with whom he previously lived in our apartment, and that he carried photos of her in his wallet, even though it had been over for a year.

Raul leaned in, happy to get a response from me. On his gold chain, it said, “Aries.” I rolled my eyes.

“I hate that. Unacceptable. Don’t like it. Who does? Why do you ask?” I said.

Apparently, all Raul wanted was a response because he could care less about carrying on the discussion. He was sober, but strange.

“Hang on, hang on. You are intriguing. Now I want to play a little psychology trick. Pick a number between one and four, and I’m gonna try to guess—”

“Whoa!” I interrupted. Raul was playing The Game, I realized!

“The Game! Don’t you know that I read that book—about how to be a pickup artist–PUA? That is a strategy. The magic stuff. Ha! No, thanks…I know what you are doing…”

My water arrived. Raul was not worth one more second. But apparently, I just earned proof that The Game is alive and kicking.

I looked around as I made my way closer to the stage. I suddenly thought of Mr. Guy. He’d probably like this band, too. Maybe he was here.

But my sudden sink was interrupted by a grooving man with a beaming smile that suggested arousal, leaned into my space, saying a hearty…

“HI!”

His name was Jairo C. He was a fit Dominican guy with curly black hair, Mac-nerd glasses and a knack for dancing. We got to talking. He made a comment about my eyebrows.

“That’s funny I just read something today on Yahoo that said men with large mouths and lips are more emotionally available,” I said. I really did read that, and this guy had a large mouth.

“AH! That’s Me! I’m very emotionally…”

“Oh, good,” I said.

I played it cool with Jairo, just dancing and talking. I didn’t know what I was looking for. But Jairo seemed to go with whatever direction I wanted to go. It was close to 1 AM. The last set was finished, and I wanted to go home. Jairo walked out with me. We went into another bar and within seconds, I ran into a man I had met earlier that day: “Jsun” a tall intelligent painter/potter who was renting a room in his apartment in the hood, which was across the street from Mr. Guy’s. It was funny, I was kinda attracted to Jsun, but he was taken. I couldn’t decide if running into him was a sign to take the place or not.

“Think about it,” advised Jairo C.

We got to my place.

“Bye,” I waved.

Jairo C. smiled and shook his head. “That’s it? Damn! Can’t I get your number?” I decided to do something I rarely did: play harder to get. I might give it to him, but it wasn’t going to be simple. I made him tell me why I should do that. Then I deliberated more.

“Come on!”

I finally wrote it and slinked through the front door alone. He stood there, egged on. In a moment, my phone was ringing. I didn’t pick up. Message: “I just wanted to make sure this was your number, wish you good night and well…now you have my number.”

I resolved to believe that that was sweet, but it didn’t count as a phone call. I might call back, I might not.

But either way, my night on the town proved that there are indeed a lot of fish in the sea and I could swim out there by myself for awhile.