Bouncer Gets Robbed While Drinking at the Attic

​Here's another weird thing that went through my mind. With a little detective work, I figured out the break-in had happened about an hour earlier. I immediately tried to remember where I had been during that time, and what I was doing -- and, gentle reader, I was of course at a bar, for happy hour. I was at one of my favorite bars in the city, the Attic. I was having a grand ol' time, discussing serial killers with a stranger and chomping on Jolly Ranchers between sips. But I wonder if everyone who has been robbed like that tries to think about what they were doing, however blissfully unaware, at the same time that the unfortunate event was taking place. I bet we all do that. It's as if you can go back and stop yourself midwhatever, rush home, and foil the thieves through the power of your mind.

The weird thing is that we were talking about crime when it happened. I am always down to talk about crime. They say that a conservative is a liberal who has been mugged. Well, what is a morbidly obsessed crime junkie who has been robbed? Does this mean I will have to sell my murder encyclopedias? I don't want to think about that right now.

Instead, let's think about the Attic. It's one of those divey bars with a theme -- Grandma's crawl space, if you will (which, by the way, is also a euphemism for something I do not care to mention). The Attic doesn't try to hit you over the head with the cobwebs/phonograph/spinning wheel shtick, though. It's basically a long, dimly lit room that smells faintly of gin and beer, with seating in the back and jumble sale stuff pressed into the rafters. Yes, just like grandma's house. The bartenders are erudite and occasionally cranky, but in their defense, I have only seen them be dicks to people who generally deserved it. I myself got kicked out of the place one drunken evening, for wildly making out with my date in the corner. The bartendress was not amused, and all but chased us with a broom handle.

The last time I was there, though, the fateful night, I had my book about the Moors Murders in England, and the bespectacled hipster who sat by me struck up a convo about it, and from there we ended up talking about how there just aren't as many serial killers as there used to be. I offered that it is because they are getting caught faster, with DNA and all that, so they don't have time to, er, serialize. He said that it is actually cyclical, and if you look at astrological charts, we are headed for a new decade of increased homicidal mania, so just sit tight and wait for it. I sat there, gentle reader, tight (natch), and tried to prepare myself for the new crime wave. I thought about the women who are still alive, right now, who will find themselves in the hands of some horrible sociopath, who asks them to "put the lotion on its skin," and makes a belt out of their nipples. The irony, of course, was that at that very instant, I was myself becoming a crime victim, although nowhere near as horrendously violated.

... continue reading this week's Bouncer column.

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