Big Night West Village Pop-Up

“Nicole, right?”          

I turn at the sound of my name to see a man with shoulder-length hair and puppy-dog eyes seated at the bar in front of me. I stare at him for a beat too long.

“It’s, uh, Warren.” He gestures to himself. “My name’s Warren.”

“Okay.” I nod, awkwardly clutching the empty glasses I cleared from the bar before he caught my attention. After all this time, he’s chosen a pretty inopportune moment to make his move, but I still feel a pang of guilt at the look of slow-growing embarrassment on his face.

“I just wanted to say, I…like your hair,” he stammers. “It’s really…smooth.”

We look at each other for another moment. Beside him, his blonde friend presses a finger to her temple and closes her eyes as if to shield herself from his humiliation.

 “Thanks…” I flash him a tight-lipped smile.

At the far end of the bar, a guy who kind of looks like Buddy Holly takes a seat. I set aside the empty glasses and rush over, grateful for the out. He orders a dirty martini, and as I mix the gin, dry vermouth, and brine, I catch bits and pieces of what sounds like Warren being mercilessly teased for his fumble.

Warren and his friends have been coming to Bar Sperl for at least as long as I’ve been working here. His interest in me hasn’t exactly been subtle—I’ve felt the way his green eyes linger on my lips and body, following me around the room. Before tonight, he’d never said more than his drink order to me, though a few weeks back, the blonde, Lexi, did introduce herself and ask for my name in an obvious play on his behalf.

I feel my coworker Daryl’s looming presence behind me as I add ice and start rhythmically shaking the cocktail.

“C’mon, Nic,” he croons in my ear, and I turn to see his trademark shit-eating grin. “Give the kid a chance.”

I roll my eyes, struck by a surprising feeling of irritation at his demeaning tone toward my admirer. The kid.

“I’m working. Do you mind?” I hiss back, handing Buddy Holly his drink.

“Man, I can’t believe I’ve been in L.A. for almost a year.” Daryl continues absently. “Crazy—time really flies.”

“Sure does.”

“How long have you been here now?”

My stomach tightens. “Two years today.”

Even without looking, I feel Daryl studying me. With his wide smile and carefully arranged red hair, you can practically see his whole story written right there on his face: a transplant from Michigan who came here to become an actor and wound up working in a bar. But who am I to judge? I left Texas with a dream in my pocket, too. At least Daryl can say he booked a Domino’s commercial that aired during the Super Bowl. I, on the other hand, have nothing to show for my time.

“Right, well…” Daryl softens slightly, probably sensing something behind my flat affect. “Happy anniversary.”

As I return Buddy Holly’s credit card, Warren catches my eye again, and I try to smile more warmly. He’s a little awkward, but there’s a genuine sweetness to him, and he’s…actually kind of cute. I’ll admit, I…sort of enjoy the way he looks at me. Usually. But tonight, I just don’t have the stomach for it. Not when I feel like my failure is written on my face as plainly as Daryl’s backstory is on his. Besides, there’s something in Warren’s eyes that always prickles my skin—like if I let him get too close, he’ll see straight into me.

I steal another look and realize their third musketeer, Shera, has been gone for some time—probably still on her walk to get “cigarettes.” During my time working here, I’ve perfected the art of eavesdropping—fixing my face with a stone-cold look like I’m deep in thought while I record whatever’s said around me. I was a little starstruck when I saw Max King, so naturally, I took notice when he started closing in on Shera. Normally that kind of pursuit from a man would set off alarm bells in my head, but for some reason, his didn’t. Besides, even from my vantage point on the other side of the bar, I could feel something there—some spark between them.

As if I summoned her, Shera’s face appears in the crowd. She’s with a rugged, handsome guy I can only assume is the “maybe date” I overheard them all talking about earlier. I set down a Moscow mule for a girl with dyed-blonde hair just as Maybe Date steps in front of me.

“What can I get for you?” I ask as he rests an elbow on the bar between us.

“I’ll take a…” He trails off, and I lean forward, waiting. But when I glance up at him again, I see he’s watching me. His face splits into a lazy smile. “Where’s that accent from?”

“Dallas.”

“Texas.” He nods. “I love southern women. Such strong, independent characters.”

I fight the urge to roll my eyes. Instead, I force a fake, unsettlingly high laugh—just strange and maniacal enough to get the point across. I feel satisfied with the disturbed look on his face as he sheepishly orders. He avoids eye contact when I hand over the drinks, but I still stare him down as he heads for the patio with his date.

Surveying the bar, I realize that Lexi and Warren have disappeared, too, leaving me all alone with…everyone else. I find myself missing their presence—if only for the entertainment—but I fall into my usual rhythm of taking orders and making cocktails, serving a seemingly endless rotation of changing faces as the night wears on and on and on.

I still don’t understand how Daryl talked me into going with him to a party after closing up at Sperl. But here I am at 2:36 a.m., watching from the passenger seat of his Toyota Camry as we wind up and up into the Hollywood Hills. I’ve been in a weird headspace lately, but things must be worse than I thought if I’m falling for lines like “say yes to life” and “embrace the endless possibilities that could await you.” God, he’s such an actor.

“Parking sucks up here. Can you check if the curb’s red?”

My attention snaps back to the present—and to the very obvious fire hydrant jutting from the sidewalk beside the car.

“It is.”

“Fuck it.” Daryl puts the car in park. “How’s a tow truck gonna get all the way up here, anyway?”

“Drive, probably?”

He ignores me as he unbuckles, and we both get out. Whatever. I’m not the one who’ll be paying for the ticket.

The house doesn’t look like much from the street, but as we step inside, the large balcony off the foyer reveals an additional story down the hillside with a huge deck at the base. Everyone’s dressed to the nines, and I immediately feel plain in my black tee and pants.

“Whose place is this?” I ask as I watch a pale girl with a shaggy bob walk by. I recognize her from a bad horror show I binged when I had the flu.

“No clue. It’s either a disgraced film producer…or one of those hip-hop megachurch founders. Can’t remember.” He shrugs, his eyes scanning the room. “My buddy Ryan sent the address. He’s a new series regular on Law and Order: SVU.”

We descend the spiraling staircase and wander room to room for a while, making small talk with a surprising number of Daryl’s acquaintances. The repetitive greetings and introductions drain me immediately, so when Daryl spots his friend Ryan out on the deck, I seize the opportunity to break away.

“Go say hi. I’m gonna hang back.” I nudge his arm gently. At work, he drives me up the wall, but for some reason, seeing him out in the real world is making me feel a little fondness toward him. 

“Really? I won’t be long.” He begins walking backward, still facing me. “Try to have fun. Bonus points if you make a friend while I’m gone!”

I sigh and make my way into the large dining room I’d staked out earlier on our self-guided tour. I’m relieved to find it’s still empty—just a long glass table surrounded by high-backed chairs. I take a seat at the far end, sinking gratefully into the cushion and leaning my head back as I close my eyes.

“Oh, sorry. I didn’t know anyone was in here.”

My head whips toward the sound, and a surprising sense of relief floods through me at the sight of a familiar, freckled face in the doorway.

“Warren, right?” I say, cocking my head.

He nods and smiles broadly. “What’re you doing here? In here?”

“I’m, uh…” I search for an excuse, but only the truth comes. “Hiding from everyone.”

He walks to the chair opposite mine on the other side of the table.

“Mind if I join you?” he asks, already halfway seated.

My heart jumps unexpectedly when his green eyes meet mine, and I give an awkward gesture of approval. He seems relaxed now, unlike his stumbling nervousness from earlier.

“About earlier at the bar,” I blurt as he sits. “I’m sorry I wasn’t very friendly when you tried to talk to me.”

He waves a hand. “You were working, and I probably seemed like a creep.”

“No, you were fine, I just…” I shake my head. “You caught me on an off night.”

“Oh, yeah? What’s going on?”

When I meet Warren’s gaze, he looks like he’s holding his breath for my answer.

“Just your run-of-the-mill existential crisis stuff,” I say with a dismissive laugh. “It’s a long story.”

He jerks his thumb toward the door behind him. “I’m not exactly in a rush to get back to the party.”

Part of me wants to change the subject or find an excuse to leave, but the prospect of re-entering the scene outside isn’t high on my to-do list, either. Besides, something about his childlike curiosity combined with a grown man’s confidence is…kind of alluring. 

I shrug. “I guess I’m sort of feeling stuck lately.”

“How so?”

“Well, I came to LA two years ago today. My plan was to become a full-time musician, but…I’ve wound up a full-time bartender instead.”

“Are you a singer?”

I nod. “And piano and guitar, too.” I pause, realizing I haven’t asked him anything. “Do you play?”

Warren nods. “Violin, cello, viola, guitar, banjo, bass—oh, and sitar. And some wind instruments…” He smiles shyly. “But I can’t sing.”

“That’s…really impressive.”

“Thanks. I had a busy extracurricular schedule as a kid.” He tucks a lock of long hair behind his ear and looks down like he’s embarrassed. “Anyway, what do you think’s stopped you? From the musician thing, I mean.”

I pause for a moment, considering my answer. “I actually come from a family of musicians. Growing up, everybody I knew was pressured by their parents to get regular jobs, but mine pushed me to follow my dreams.” I smile to myself. “I’ll always be grateful for that, but…it was also drilled into me that ‘practice makes perfect,’ and somewhere along the way, I guess I stopped seeing that as a motivational slogan and started thinking I could actually…be perfect.”

I look up to see Warren sitting quietly, waiting. I’m not someone who shares at the drop of a hat—not with friends or family or anyone, let alone a stranger. And I’m not exactly sure what I’m doing in this particular moment, or why. But it does feel…kind of nice. So I keep going.

“When I’m not working, every day is the same. I never go to parties like this, I rarely see friends or waste my time on anything that feels like a distraction. All I do is write and practice. I have notebooks full of songs, but I never share any of them. Nothing’s ever ‘perfect’ enough, and I don’t know if it ever will be.”

“Let me guess.” Warren crosses his arms on the table. “You think analyzing every detail like your worst critic will help you find the flaws so you can fix them. But instead, you start imagining every horrible thing anyone would ever say about your work till you’re paralyzed with fear of judgment and consider quitting completely to become a real estate agent. You’ve run out of inspiration because you stopped taking risks, and sometimes, it feels like you’re losing your talent altogether. You don’t let anyone get too close because you’re afraid they’ll judge you, too, and even if you did let someone in, you don’t feel like you’d have the energy to dedicate to them with all that other stuff going on in your head.”

“I mean,” I reply slowly. “I’d probably pivot to an esthetician, but…how do you—”

“I’m a composer and a producer. And a recovering perfectionist.” He pauses. “I read this book about creativity that referred to perfectionism as fear in fancy shoes, and, wow, that realization just hit me like a ton of bricks. So my coping mechanism these days is trying to do things that scare me regularly. Like…introducing myself to you. Works the muscle, you know?”

He smiles, and my heart flutters again. It’s like I can see him filling out before my eyes. Like he was only drawn in pencil all those nights I saw him at Bar Sperl, but now there are splashes of watercolor. 

“I think I’m doomed to live with that critic in my head forever,” I say.

Warren shakes his head, making the sun-lightened ends of his hair sway. “You’re just in a rut, doing the same thing over and over again, expecting a different outcome, which, by definition—insanity. Maybe you need a disruption…something to shake up your life. Something that feels a little scary.”

I give him a look.

“It could be anything. You could go on a retreat with strangers or drive to Vegas without a plan or…quit your job and spend a year in Italy—well, maybe not that one.” He looks down, his cheeks flushing. “I’d really hate to never see you again.”

My face gets hot as I smile in spite of myself, but I instinctively glance toward the doorway. I want to stay and fantasize about wild adventures. I want to enjoy Warren’s flirting and even flirt back. I want to pretend I’m the kind of person who can do something daring and different and scary—but I can’t.

“It’s late. I think I need to go find my friend.”

Warren’s face falls, but he catches himself. “Sure—yeah, of course. Me too.”

We get up in unison and leave the room. The crowd outside has become even more dense, and I realize texting Daryl to meet me at the car will be easier than looking for him. When I pull out my phone, I see that it’s 4:34 a.m.—and that I don’t have reception.

“I’m gonna go outside and try to get a signal,” I shout over the noise. I crane my neck to look up at Warren and realize for the first time just how tall he is.

“I’ll come with you.” Warren places a guiding hand on my back that sends a tingle up my spine.

We fight our way through the body heat and noise, and when we finally make it outside, the crisp night air feels like a reward. I hold my phone high as I wander back and forth, uphill and down, but it’s no use.

“Nothing.” I turn to Warren and see a contemplative expression on his face. I frown. “What?”

“I was thinking…” He pauses, chewing his lip. “Why don’t we drive to Vegas—right now.”

“You’re joking.”

“I’m dead serious. Hear me out: everything I said about the inner critic, and running out of inspiration, and being afraid—that’s all me, too. I’m also totally stuck. So why don’t we take a chance and do something a little fear–inducing?”

“Warren, this isn’t a movie. We can’t just—”

“Why not?”

“Because we don’t know each other!”

“That’s true—technically.”

“Technically?” My eyebrows go sky-high. “It’s a fact.”

He takes a step forward, and I feel the heat radiating from him. “Look, it’s your decision. I just…want to keep getting to know you.” He swallows hard, and my own pulse quickens. “Whatever happens, it’ll be something new. And you know my friends—I’m hardly a stranger.”

I rack my brain for the best way to respond. There’s no logical reason this would be a good idea, I’m sure, but—on the other hand, what if this is me saying no to life, playing it too safe and perfect? I could just give him my number, and we could get coffee sometime instead…but what if he’s right? What if I need to do something daring like this? 

I take a deep breath and close my eyes. When I open them and look up into Warren’s earnest face, the answer becomes clear.

“So?” he asks, the nerves apparent in his voice.

I don’t know what comes over me exactly, but without a word, I stand on tiptoe and press my lips against his. When I pull away, I see Warren grinning from ear to ear.

“Alright,” I say, smiling back. “Let’s go.”