Outfitted for battle in a short floral skirt and a crocheted, sleeveless light blue top, Ally stepped out into the warm August night, which was as muggy as you might expect for that time of year. Her friends, ever full of good advice (well, not always the best advice, but at least well-meaning), had suggested she should “get back out there and be seen” (as if she were otherwise invisible, which may have held some truth), or “circulate” (as if she were a library book), or even “get back in the saddle” (in a non-sexual innuendo sort of way…or was it?). So, what the hell, tonight seemed as good a time to start as any. Right?

In this, her first expedition after the breakup with what’s-his-face, Ally managed to make it as far as a neighborhood bar three blocks from her apartment in Brooklyn. It was a generic Irish pub sort of place, all oak and brass and mirrors, with a few potted plants struggling to photosynthesize in a north-facing window near the door. She rooted herself at the not-yet-crowded bar (it was still fairly early on a Tuesday evening), capturing a spot with a couple of empty barstools next to it. She ordered a drink (bourbon, rocks, no damn umbrellas, please), upon which she proceeded to focus, running her index finger in a circular motion on the moisture forming on the cold glass, wondering if this looked beguiling, or maybe even alluring, or, perhaps, just odd.

Well, something worked. He (faded Talking Heads World Tour t-shirt still damp from the oppressive summer heat, baggy shorts, and lavender headphones hanging around his neck) walked up and introduced himself as Max. Ally reciprocated the name exchange ritual and nodded to the vacant seat next to hers. Once seated, he asked if she’d like another drink, and she said no, not yet. What followed was a series of banal conversation starters, a search for any sort of commonality, something to give the convo some spark of life. Obviously sensing his impending failure, he finally asked the question from hell: “So, what do you do?”

She fiddled with her drink for a few seconds and took a deep breath before telling him she was a writer.

“Oh, a writer? That sounds really cool. Anything I might’ve read?”

Ally forced a smile. She had heard it all before and kept a running list of the top five most boring questions people ask when meeting a writer. In addition to Max’s query, the others were: Where do you get your ideas? Do you write movies? For TV? And, the big one, the one her parents kept asking, can you make a living with it?

“Probably not. I’ve had a few short stories in online lit mags. Nothing big yet. Still working on that.”

“Right.” Max nodded as if in recognition, but looked puzzled. “Uh, what’s an ‘online lit mag’?”

Ally was disappointed by Max’s question (given the high density of aspiring writer-types in the city), but not surprised. “Well, they publish short pieces from new or emerging writers, mostly. It helps us get noticed, get some experience with the publishing process, stuff like that.”

“Yeah, right, awesome,” Max said, although he didn’t look particularly awestruck. “Does it pay well?” 

Ally quickly scanned the room, evaluating the relative merits of various escape routes. Boring question number two; three more to go.

“Um, no, it’s usually for free. When it does pay, it’s usually like ten or twenty bucks. It’s really just for the exposure.”

“Well, that’s a great deal for the mag then, isn’t it? I mean, they don’t pay you, but then they sell the magazine, right?”

“No, not really. It’s usually free, and the staff are all volunteers.” 

“Then how do they make any money?”

“They get by on donations and reading fees.”

After another pause in the conversation, Max attempted a follow-up. “So, how do you pay the rent?”

Her friends’ well-meaning advice to “circulate” seemed to be cratering. Why am I still talking to this guy? Maybe my cringe and a certain tone of voice will be just the repellent needed to get him to wander off so I can drink in peace. “Well, I’m an assistant curator at MOMA.”

“Hey, cool, MOMA. You know, I went there once, it was kind of strange how it was vertically arranged and all, but I suppose that’s just like so many things in New York.”

 As Max stumbled through his weird MOMA floor plan monologue, several people flowed into the pub to escape a sudden downpour. Among them was a tall guy with curly, blonde-tipped hair, wearing a Hawaiian shirt and baggy white pants, like he just flew in from his grandparents’ Florida condo. As he worked his way towards them he first seemed to be checking her out, but as he got closer, Ally realized he was more focused on Max.

The interloper mercifully cut Max off at the Andy Warhol exhibit. “Hey man, how ya been? Long time no see, dude.”

Ally was glad to have a new face in play, but hoped he was using “dude” ironically.

Max turned to greet his friend and broke into a relieved smile.

Hey, Max, I’m standing right here, don’t look so obviously happy for the interruption.

“Hi, Patrick, great to see you, bro, it’s been a while!”  The men performed a backslapping friend-hug, the type with a subordinated handshake, which is more difficult to ace than it looks.

“So, who’s the lovely lady, bud? Another groupie?”

Max seemed genuinely flustered by the question but quickly recovered. “No, not a groupie. Ally, this is my sometimes-best friend, Patrick. Patrick, this is Ally. She’s a writer.”

“Hey, great, two aspiring artists!” Patrick appeared to be one of those guys who felt compelled to keep talking. “Oh, wait. I shouldn’t put it that way. Max here is aspiring, but maybe Ally has reached the pinnacle of success. Anything I’ve seen? On Netflix, maybe?”

Should the Boring Question Meter be reset for old Patrick here, or can I have a single score for the entire evening? Well, my game, my rules; I’ll call it three out of five.

“Sorry, no, nothing on Netflix yet. I am working on something though, a fantasy/action story called Ice Blood.”

“Sweet,” said Patrick. “Like a Game of Thrones deal?”

“Even better. It’s about a Swedish vampire slayer whose weapons of choice are an ice axe and a snow stake.” Neither true nor false. I was wandering through REI yesterday when I saw some ice climbing equipment and thought, “These would make awesome weapons.”

Patrick was taking over the conversation now. “Hey, maybe you could add some dragons. They’re still pretty cool, right?”

Maybe I’ll need a working title that doesn’t connote GOT. Then again, maybe a dragon or two wouldn’t be so bad. Swedish dragons. Oh God, am I really that desperate? I should ditch these guys and do some shots.

“Well, my man Max here is quite the troubadour, great vocals, and some serious guitar licks. Writes his own shit.” 

Patrick’s revelation about Max’s artistic skills brought Ally back into the conversation with renewed energy. “Really, Max? I didn’t know that. So, what have you written?

“Just some moody stuff, pretty mellow. Probably nothing you’ve ever heard.”

“Do you play around here?”

“Well, yeah, I’ve been doing a lot of open mic stuff the last few months.”

Ally nodded slowly, in an attempt to appear thoughtful. “You know, I’ve often wondered how that works. I mean, do you have an agent, or what?”

Talking about himself perked Max up a bit. “God, no, nothing like that! They usually post a signup sheet at the start of the evening, and then they just go through the list. The more experienced performers get preference, which seems fair, right? The new ones get pushed to later in the evening, which used to be me. But, well, I’ve been doing it for a while now, so sometimes I get to play before the audience gets drunk. I think some people actually recognize me.” Max blushed a little at the last statement, and hastily added, “A little at least.”

“Sounds really cool, Max. How’s the money?”

“Oh, it doesn’t really pay at all.” Max shifted on his barstool and took a sip of his beer. “Sometimes I get tips. But, like, it’s mostly just for the experience.”

“But wait, they get to sell drinks and stuff while you perform,” said Ally. “So, in reality you’re just working for free, is that it?”

“Well, when you put it that way, yes.”

“Sounds like publishing in online lit mags, but worse.”

Patrick jumped in eagerly. “His stuff is really great, the crowd digs it, some of them even sing along.”

Okay, so maybe he’s at least a good wingman and not really a total asshole.

“He mixes it up. A lot of stuff people know, and a few of his own,” Patrick added. “And he always closes with Hallelujah.”

Ally tilted her head slightly. “With what?”

“Hallelujah.” 

Ally turned to Max and gave him a puzzled look as he stumbled through an explanation. “It’s a famous song. A really good closer. You sure you haven’t heard of it?”

Ally gave no sign of comprehension. “Um, no. Is it a religious thing? There’s been a lot of that on my Insta feed. They say it’s a trend; more people are going to church now.”

Max looked baffled. “Well, maybe, but no, that’s not what I meant. You must know the song. I mean, everyone does.”

“Well, as I already said, no, I don’t.” 

Ally wasn’t smiling. Max looked worried.

Ally went on: “So, okay, who wrote it? I mean, not you, right, if it’s already famous and all that.”

“Leonard Cohen”

“Who?”

“Leonard Cohen.” Max, noting the persistent lack of recognition on Ally’s face, continued. “Famous in his day, a sort of poet-singer-performer. An inspiration of mine.”

Patrick jumped back in with an ill-timed but enthusiastic: “But hey, Max is a much better singer.”

Max shot Patrick a sharp glance for him to stop talking, and then said to Ally, “Look, I don’t mean to be weird about this, a lot of people don’t know Cohen, he’s pretty old school. But the song’s been covered by lots of people: Jeff Buckley, k. d. lang, Rufus Wainwright, a lot of really great singers. I’m just a little surprised you haven’t run into it. But I suppose there’s all kinds of musical tastes out there…”

Looking a little sad, Max. Poor guy. Time to help him out a bit.

Ally allowed herself to smile, just a little. “Okay, so tell me this. Which version?”

“Huh?”

“Which version of Hallelujah do you use to close your set? The one from Shrek, or John Cale’s?”

Max started to smile. Nice smile, expressive eyes. “More like John Cale’s. And sometimes I dig back to Cohen’s original track on Various Positions. Most people don’t know the album, and they always ask if I’m adding new lyrics.”  Max paused, took a breath, still smiling. “So, this was all bullshit?”

“Yeah, mostly. But kinda fun, too. I mean, after all, you started it with the,” and here Ally crossed her arms, knitted her brows in a caricature of seriousness, and lowered her voice an octave, “Can you make any money as a writer?” Her smile and normal speaking voice returned. “Were you having fun with that? And did you think you were going to get lucky tonight?”

“Yes. And maybe. As it stands right now, what’re my odds?”

“Oh, I’d say 50-50, at best, and that’s just for a phone number. Depends on your follow-up.”

Max looked relieved. “I’ll take those odds. And well, maybe at least we can say that this is the start of a beautiful friendship, right?”

“Oh, so now you’re quoting Casablanca?”

“Huh?” Max’s face was a blank. “Casa-what?”

“Casablanca? The movie? Bogart. Bergman. Claude Rains?” Max still showed no sign of recognition, so Ally added more clues. “Rick’s Café Américain. Nazis. World War II?” 

“Well, okay, sure, we studied World War II in school, but I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about.”

Ally was unsuccessfully fighting the urge to appear indignant. “Hey, it’s just one of the best movies ever made, just like Hallelujah is one of the best songs… ever…written.” Ally’s self-righteousness sputtered to a halt. Max had a huge grin on his face. Patrick looked more than a bit puzzled by the direction of the conversation and remained uncharacteristically quiet.

“Max, you’re messing with me, aren’t ya?”

“Hmm. Maybe. And you work at MOMA?”

“Well,” said Ally, “I wait tables at the restaurant there. You?” 

“Oh, I’m a waiter at the House of Blues. Sometimes I sneak up on the stage just to see how it feels.”

Okay, odds are getting better, 60-40 in favor. Maybe I’ll buy the next round.