There were two bathrooms; one red, one blue, both graffitied to the rafters. Arbitrarily, the blue one was inferior though both were equally disgusting. I’d heard that over time that these bathrooms saw every possible life scenario play out within their 3’x3’ spaces. From breakup to marriage proposal, you imagine it, it happened. Hell, in the early days of dating, my husband and I would steal into one or the other for a make-out session in the wee hours of the morning. I’m certain that at least one baby has been conceived within those stalls.
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The bathrooms were not the only province of surreptitious lovemaking: an alcove off the cellar with a wraparound couch was aptly named Fingerbang Corner after one report too many of...well, you know. This wasn’t the only cozy nook in the place but it certainly was the darkest. In the back, teeny cocktail tables paired with mismatched chairs were sprinkled about the room. Low lighting emitted from antique lamps reminiscent of a New Orleans brothel. The overall effect was one of intimacy and tattered cool--it was a place you wanted to hang out.
Up front, the main bar stretched from the entrance halfway through the room. It had been made by hand of repurposed wood and sat about 16 stools, 20 on a busy night. Its smaller twin--a rail just wide enough to hold a beer--hung on the brick wall directly behind and sat another dozen. An impressive array of booze lined shelves behind the bar. Self-concocted drink specials were scribbled onto a blackboard: the Mitchellada: a shout-out to a bartender alumnus, or the Serenity, made fittingly with Firefly vodka. Though one could get delivery from just about any restaurant in Cobble Hill, there was no food served, save an array of Utz potato chips hanging over the cash register. On a weekend night, space was often at a premium. This was a standing-up bar, a sidle up to the bar-bar, a real bar.
It was a place where if you were to drop by there’d be a good chance of running into someone you knew. The happy hour crowd. The late night set. And the bartenders, each as singular as a snowflake. Some people would pop in and out multiple times a night, others you wouldn’t see for months on end. I had a knack for being able to sense ahead of time if Winnick, Quinny or an illicit dog would show up on any given night (last Thursday I pulled a hat trick and correctly predicted all three would appear). In a life full of inconsistency, it was comforting to know you could come in almost any time and see Rainbow sitting in the window nook having his High Life poured for him into a pint glass.
Yet despite the overabundance of familiar faces, newcomers would always say they felt welcome. More than one person used ‘Cheers’ as an analogy. It was indeed a place where everybody knows your name, but where you similarly could be left undisturbed if you chose to spend your time reading rather than socializing. Sometimes after work I would sit at one of the corner stools facing the picture window sipping a Six Point and looking out at the passing dogs, their leashed owners trailing behind them, wistfully peering into the bar.
First and third Mondays were devoted to Pub Quiz, when Marcus or Moo would take to the mic, quizzing us with 50 questions devoted to myriad subjects. The top team could win a decent purse and second and third place would get at least some of their tab covered. Where else could one drop in for two hours to have a few drinks and be amused by trivia in such categories as Dead or Canadian? or Bodega Price is Right? I always felt smart and Brooklyney quiz nights; proud of my neighborhood and the cleverness of my friends. I belonged here. These were my people.
When I think about the bar I honestly cannot imagine a more satisfactory place to spend my free time. But regrettably, our time is up.
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Situated on a lonely stretch of Atlantic Avenue leading to the East River, Last Exit was named after one of Hubert Selby Jr.’s seminal novels and sits appropriately close to an off-ramp of the BQE. When Julie, John and Joe opened it was the only option in the neighborhood; today it’s a crowded field. One night, we patrons sat around wondering about our next move, each suggestion quickly shot down. Roebling: too sterile. Floyd’s: too douchey. Long Island Bar: too fussy. Montero’s: too weird. What we needed, we decided, was somewhere in between. Unfortunately, that place was about to close its doors.
I suppose we should’ve seen it coming. So much change in the neighborhood: some in the name of gentrification, most under the guise of greed. Heraclitus said that “the only constant in life is change.” Over the course of its 16 years, change certainly came to the bar. Some of the cocktail tables were replaced by larger linoleum kitchen tables I last remember seeing in my grandmother’s house. Fingerbang Corner made way for a video game and a photo booth where drunken patrons (and employees) documented their time. And just about a month ago, the sacred plaster bust of Michael Jackson that had sat high above the bar for years suddenly fell from its perch, shattering into a million pieces. Perhaps it was a sign.
And so the last days came quickly upon us. The goodbye party was suitably loud, sweaty, sloppy and sticky. There was an unlawful amount of persons jammed from entrance to back door, and by midnight many of the old-timers sat smoking and open-containering on the bar’s doorstep while they waited for the youngsters to grow tired of the place. Bacchus must’ve been on duty that night, for we received no visits from law enforcement about the illegal party on the veranda, not even a drive-by. I relaxed my no-fly rule on tequila shots and joined Julie and some regulars in a toast. Somehow I wound up wearing two candy necklaces. Around three, Marcus and I stumbled home up Henry Street for the last time, a misty silence enveloping the walk.
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On Sunday a few come by and pay final respects. The filth of the previous evening is magically washed away by a vat of Pine Sol. I notice that everything is pretty much still intact: the penny wall, Sparky the Devil, the action figures, the Clown Lamp, the tea candles, the booze. The handcrafted wooden sign still hangs over the entrance, though now missing its arrow. I speculate about what the place will look like with its innards scrubbed, but Sic warns me that it would be too depressing to imagine. We try to make merry, but by 7:30 we’re ready to go. We finish our Shiners and hug and kiss our way out of the bar. From the street I hear the baseline of ‘What is Love’ thumping from within. It’s a ridiculous song to be the last you hear when walking away from a place you’d spent so many hours, that you’ll never step into again.
We head to dinner. I lie to myself that I’ll be back next week, that I’ll hug Julie’s mass of curly hair hello Monday at quiz, that we’ll all keep in touch, find a new bar, a new place for us to reune. But of course there’s a little part of me that doesn’t want to. My time at Last Exit was too precious. The memory of it needs to be locked away so that down the road a piece--once my heart has mended--I can look back without tears and wonder at the miracle of this place that, by some strange twist of fate, we all found together.
1Spring and Fall, Gerard Manley Hopkins, 1918
http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/173665
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