Stephen Mejias

"Also," John DeVore continued, "we should have drinks soon. What do you say?"

We arranged to meet at the Pink Pony on Ludlow Street, just beside the musical Max Fish and directly across from a suddenly vacant lot. You can look into that vacant lot from a third-floor bedroom window and count the ugly rats as they scurry across wooden planks and dart into dark holes. One, two, three...

We decided on the Pink Pony, and not the musical Max Fish because I'd requested coffee.

"Coffee bad, beer good," John DeVore replied.

"I'd actually like to drink something other than alcohol, but we can go to a bar and I'll order a sasparilla, or something."

"Sasparilla, eh? Is the Lower East Side convenient? I know the good spots."

"Yeah, I'd like to check out one of your favorite places," I said.

"Oh no, the pressure! I was thinking that we could go to the Pink Pony, just beside Max Fish on Ludlow. If you're in a drinkin' mood we could just go the Fish and drink some Bud. You inna drinkin' mood?"

"Decisions, decisions," I replied. "While I'm not in a drinking mood, per se, you've touched upon something very close to my heart. Budweiser happens to be my all-time favorite beer. I grew up in Newark, not far from the airport, with the golden Budweiser eagle flapping its beautiful wings outside my kitchen window." [I don't talk like this, in case you're wondering. I only write this way.]

"My family is made up of a bunch of Puerto Ricans," I continued, "who all loved the red, white, and blue cans. It was rice, beans, the Mets, and Budweiser."

I became memory-eyed. "On the other hand," I decided, "it is a Monday night, and I want to be a good boy, so let's hit the Pink Pony."

The coffee at the bookish Pink Pony is good, hot, and French. John ordered a Stella. We were there for a few sips before John mentioned he'd been having a rough, but exciting, time at work.