And you say, Solo un poco.
And he says, That’s good, that’s good.
And you say, De dónde son ustedes?
And he answers once again in English. From Arizona, he says. Pointing at the young man next to him, he says, Miami. And then the attractive woman at the end of the bar. Guatemala. She nods.
And you? the Arizona man says, in the English version of the y tu that you would have understood.
I’m from here, you say—from Brooklyn. Marine Park. Down that way. You point in a vague southerly direction.
Arizona looks surprised.
I’ve never met anyone who’s actually from here before.
You laugh and consider bringing up the E. B. White line that’s on the subway posters, but instead you just say, That’s the way it is.
It’s different from here, down there, you say. He nods. But not so different. There are more things to do in this part. He nods again.
Many things to do here, he says. Many restaurants.
Lots of restaurants, you say. Lots of exposed brick, you add, pointing at the walls. They used to be covered with plaster, you say, as if you know. The woman from Guatemala leans over and says, Plaster? And suddenly you are very tired. Yes, you say, and leave it at that.
You drink more of your pale ale and the two men and woman go back to speaking to each other in low tones in Spanish. The bartender walks out from behind the bar, which is still crowded, and goes out the door. You decide not to look at your cell phone. When the bartender comes back into his bar, he walks by the man from Arizona, and slips a wad of napkins into his coat pocket, his coat still on. There is the smell, suddenly, that overcomes you, like wet earth, like lying on the grass somewhere with trees. The man from Arizona looks at you. You look at him.
It’s OK, you say. You’re among friends.
Can you smell it? he asks.
Sure, you say.
You need a ziplock bag, his companion says. Do you have a ziplock bag? he asks you.
I don’t, you say. But it’s fine. I can only smell it because I’m so close, you add. He closes his jacket more and grins at you. David, he says, and extends his hand. You shake it. You tell him your name. We’re waiters, he says. But we have money. We live in Carroll Gardens. Me and Andreo. Isabella is in Brooklyn Heights. But Isabella has already stopped paying attention to you and her fellow workers, and is busy looking at her cell phone.
What restaurant? you say. Is it one I might have been to?
Maybe, they say, and they name a restaurant on Smith Street that you have never been to. You never eat in restaurants alone.
I know it, you say. A nice place. A good place.
They nod noncommittally. Yes, David says, but not like Arizona. Andreo agrees.
What do you mean? you say.
No tipping like Arizona, he says. In Arizona they tip 40 percent.
Forty percent, you say, too loud, as if you might have been outraged.
Yes, David says. It is common.
And how about here? you ask.
David thinks for a minute, swilling the wine that is left in his glass. Ten, fifteen. Sometimes twenty, he says. Sometimes five. Sometimes point oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-one percent.
Jesus, you say. So do you know, like, when a table sits down, how much they’ll tip you?
David nods, but he looks uncomfortable. He is holding his glass just a little above the bar, resting it on his fist. How do you know? you say. Is it racial?