Friendly Lounge

We pulled in on the corner of South 7th and Washington and promptly lodged ourselves between a planter box and the front stoop. Wheels turned in opposing angles and the drivers hands clutching the steering wheel as he peered out the windshield awaiting the next instruction to what now seemed an impossible task. Parallel parking. I threw my hands up and walked away just as a man put his phone in his pocket, tied the dog to a tree and asked, do you need help.

Half an hour later, postponing the inevitable Phillycheese steak until our taylor ham from a diner in Metuchen, New Jersey settled in our bellies,we reached an agreement. COCKTAILS. We headed to the nearest bar, a red doored corner a block away, Friendlys Lounge. We walked into the silence of a smoke stale room across the stained carpet that mimicked the patterns of 70s shag, saddled up to sprug spring bar stools and ordered yuengling. The bartender pulled the bottles from the rolling door fridge turning to ask, "do you need an ashtray?"

The bartender returns to his tinfoil wrapped sandwich, stack of newspapers, and white gristled customer at the edge of the bar. I take in the wood framed mirrors, naked picture of Marilyn Monroe, and ancient press button cash register.

"Up the stairs and to your right, make sure to hold onto the rail." The steps seem to collapse beneath my feet as I climb the darkened well only to be greated by a clogged sink yet thankful for the reems of toilet paper.

As it often does, the conversation seems to stem from nowhere, and we are now on a first name basis. Dominick, a handsome salt and pepper who happen to be the proprietor of the joint , has been working here since the 70's when he turned 21.

Dominick recalls his father taking him and his brother to the massage parlours. Standing in steaming rooms while a man in a towel diaper and a fedora suds a sweep of branches tied together before asking him to lie on the scalding wood and commence scrubbing. After they were rubbed down with alcohol. Every sunday. Different parlours as his father followed a single therapist. That was before he died.

Felix hands us a flyer for his art show at the back of a potions bar, which we would stumble into later after Jim's cheese steaks, thick with herbs, candles and self portraits of primary colored acryillic. Felix knows one artist in New York, his cousin. But as fate would have it, we know her, she is driving down the parkway as we finish our yuenglings and slap the bar with our estonishment, "Are you kidding me?"

Friendlys Lounge, best bar ever.