Scene Report 8/16

Non-Fiction

Last night, I went to a launch party for [redacted] Magazine, a publication I have never read but have submitted to twice. One editor, on seeing me at the party, asked if I had perhaps been submitting as a joke. The other offered me a hug.

The launch was hosted at The River, a small expensive bar on the unhip side of Chinatown. This location proved fortuitous—because of the barren surrounding area, attendees were more inclined to stay. I made it an hour, before I was Lyft-ed off to a second location.

Due to some combination of cheapness and brazenness, the editors had not rented out the bar and merely staked out four of the six tables for their event—one of which was manned by sixty-something Midwesterners, parents, who dutifully hawked issues of the magazine, priced at a princely $20.

Across the bar from the “merchandise” table—a distance that I estimate at roughly four feet—I sat with several young people and drank standard cocktails. There was little conversation of note. Eventually, we decided to try our luck outside.

The outside area of The River was managed by a large Black man who was very concerned with keeping a path clear to the doorway. Given the smallness of the outside area—and the overcrowding of an already tiny bar by a well-advertised literary event—this was a difficult task. His efforts proved insufficient: People milled about across the sidewalk and into the street. Pedestrians wishing to traverse between Mulberry and Baxter Street were vexed.

While beggaring for a cigarette, I was approached by a young blonde woman who offered me a slim and asked if I was interested in experimental literature. After some conversation, it was decided that I was not. She said not many people were. I offered that, perhaps, they call it the mainstream for a reason. I left her and went to buy more drinks. Inside I closed my tab, $98 for 6 well drinks. I tipped modestly.

At this point in the night, my group had begun to tire of the event and corralling had begun. I stood on the edge of the sidewalk, trying to exert magnetic force on slower exponents. An editor, seeing us on the way out, walked over and asked me if I was an earnest person. She then asked if I could say I was while looking her in the eyes. Panicking, I suggested I could write her a magazine piece on the history of thumb tacks. She described this as an “idea.” The other editor I did not see again. There was no second hug.