She's Not Depressed, She's Drunk

The Leopard decided to go for cocktails the other night at the creatively grungy Art Bar, a notorious spot in the West Village known for its dank innards, worn furniture, and 1000-year-old beer smell.

Still, the place has its earthy pleasures. As we settled in at the bar for a bit of light conversation, in came a blond middle-aged woman who sat one stool away. I could see her heavily made up face clearly over my friend’s shoulder. She began to make jittery movements like a junkie and looked increasingly anxious. She greeted the bartender broadly, and seemed to want to engage her in conversation, but the server stoically declined to socialize and dutifully poured her a drink.

After gulping down her straight vodka, she grinned at me a few times in a creepy way. I didn’t want to encourage her so I looked away. A few minutes later, she began to quietly sob. Pretty soon, the sobs became moans, and then the moans became full-out bawling, complete with running tears and streaking mascara.

My partner and I tried at first to ignore this noisy, pathetic spectacle but she went on and on, obviously vying for attention. Soon the bartender intervened in a sympathetic yet stern tone, “You’re disturbing our customers. Please leave. Look, Your drink is on me." The woman was so overcome with emotion she couldn’t speak, so she simply scooped up her things and left.

Whenever I walk past that place, I always wonder. What was she crying about? A lost lover? A tragedy in her family? Her own alcoholism? Most likely, I’ll never know.