“Hey, do you think they have wormwood,” Little John asked me and pointed at the Cambridge Natural Foods store across the street. We had just left the Cambridge Common and were headed towards Harvard Square. I was determined to steer us clear of the Square proper, as I knew one or more of our group would want to take on the role of Matt Damon and ask somebody how they liked them apples.
“What in hell is wormwood,” I asked.
“You ever had absinthe,” Little John responded, but before I could question him any further, pandemonium broke loose in front of us. Nate must have attempted a second, failed, alcohol-inspired attack on Aaron because he was clacking quickly up Mass. Ave. and ducking into the Law School campus, Aaron hot on his heels with John cackling like a hyena, and Kumar clinging on to a light pole, looking back at us for help. We’d only been to four places so far, and Jim and his sister hadn’t even joined us yet. It was going to be a long and wicked night.
By the time we stumbled in to the Plough and Stars, Aaron’s fury had abated. Nate assuaged him further by buying the first round. It must have been about 8:00 by the time we arrived for our photo shoot, and like all rock stars, we were intent on causing as much trouble as possible without getting the heave-ho. Of the eleven stools at the bar, only one was free, which is where we all crowded around, oblivious to whether or not any of the regulars were put off by our brash campfire gathering. We all got our drinks served up, an imperial pint of Brooklyn Lager for me, and despite our volume, everyone seemed to take us in stride and we soon found ourselves sitting on the bench that swung around the right perimeter of the place, a safe distance, though still close, to the bar. From my perch, I was able to take it all in.
The whole place seemed to have been refinished since the last time I had been there. What was once dingy was now full of light wood, stringed colored Christmas lights hanging on the trellis work dropped from the ceiling, and pictures both behind the bar, mostly of soccer clubs and musical performers, and on the wall behind us that stretched the length of the right side. These pictures, mostly ink or pencil, seemed to be of regular patrons, and as I stared at some guy with huge glasses behind my right ear, Kumar pulled my shoulder and pointed at a man sitting in the small ell of the bar near the Mass. Ave. windows, covered by dirty yellow drapes. It seemed he was the artist in residence. Kumar staggered up and went over to him, getting lost in the cozy crowd. Truly, this was a neighborhood place as there seemed to be hand shakes and hugs all around as the trad group came in and started to set up in the back, the Beatles’ “She’s Leaving Home,” almost drowned out in the background of the drinking buzz. On the board I could make out that they had about eleven draughts on, including the Brooklyn, Smithwick’s, and at one time, the best pour of Guinness in the area. The true selling point was that the draughts were served in 20-oz. imperial pints, and my lager was an affordable $4.
Despite how busy it was, Aaron managed to spot the peanuts dispenser just beyond the bar and he trudged off, pint in hand, to buy some quick and cheap sustenance. There were some chips and other bagged items for sale behind the bar, as well as sandwiches for sale, but I didn’t see a food menu anywhere and wasn’t interested in asking for one. I noticed the lone television up above the fray in the back left corner was off and laughed remembering how I had come here regularly to watch soccer on Sundays until they started charging a $10 cover for the privilege. Our group hadn’t come to watch television or to eat, though. Rather, we were there to imbibe. And the sign behind the bar that said, “Respect Your Bartender,” was a tenet we tried to uphold, as long as it was a two way street, and in this case, it certainly was because no sooner had I easily ordered up another round of drinks, but the bartender offered to give Aaron a free bag of chips and his money back from the peanuts machine which had apparently eaten his loose change, a personal affront to him. I thought we might be able to settle in for a while, but I should have known better.
As I came back to our area, Kumar materializing out of nowhere with a sketch of himself, Aaron greedily devouring his chips, we were quickly reminded of just how ridiculous we all could be when John, with eyes agog, pulled back from us, martini glued to his fingers, and pointed at Nate’s shoes. We all made a circle to see.
“Jesus, you’re still wearing those dingo boots around?” John yelled. It was true, Nate was wearing the same old, scuffed penny loafers he had been wearing one night when we were all out at the Cove. Hardly the traditional definition of the dingo boot, but it created a laugh-inducing image for all of us, with the exception of Nate. Out at the Cove that night, Nate was slipping and sliding all over the rocks, due in no small part to his shoes having no traction on the treacherous outcroppings, although the booze probably hadn’t helped any either. And of course John had been on him all night about it.
“John,” Nate said, “unless you want me to drop you on your head again, shut the hell up.”