Walking west along Saint Mark’s Place, deep into the East Village, I think about how much things have changed—and how quickly.

I remember walking down Saint Mark’s as a kid, sensing the unfamiliar atmosphere, watching and listening to fully grown adults reel down the sidewalk, having loud, senseless conversations.

Other men and women would sit, hunched over, on stoops or on the ground, rocking back and forth. They were around my parents’ age, and it led me to think that life was mostly just about the luck of the draw, with the possibility of a new drawing coming up any time.

Saint Mark’s is a little different now. In some ways, so am I. For one, I’m carrying a smartphone in my pocket, which vibrates loudly in the middle of the block.

I know it’s a text from Ryan, probably a variation of the message he sends almost every time we meet at Lush Republic, but I still pull out my phone to look.

Hurry the fuck up, it’s hopping and I need a wingman.

It’s from Ryan, alright, but it looks like he managed to save up some money this week.

I also just opened a tab so your presence and wallet will be even more appreciated.

Ryan’s second text puts that notion to rest. Oh, well. My income allows me to free my friends of some of their financial constraints and enjoy our time out.

Saint Mark’s Place has changed as much as any person I know. I look up from my phone and see that nearly everyone else on the block also has their phones out, and everyone looks well-dressed.

This is now a street for those who got lucky in the draw.

I’m almost at Avenue A, home to Lush Republic and about a billion other bars. Luck, and everything else, could change at any time, at any second.

This neighborhood wasn’t always a destination for the fortunate ones, especially Alphabet City, the name for this little enclave of Avenues A through D.

This morning, when I announced my plans to Rodrigo, owner of my favorite deli and breakfast spot, he seemed disconcerted that I was going to venture into Alphabet City.

“Back in the seventies and eighties,” he had informed me, “we used to say that, if you went to Avenue A, you were adventurous. If you kept going east to Avenue B, then you were brave. If you went even further to Avenue C, you were crazy. Then, by the time you made it to Avenue D...”

“You were dead,” I interrupted.

He had nodded solemnly, not finding any of it funny.

These days, Avenue A is far from even mildly risky. Lush Republic, formerly the Café Kiev, is adventurous for the neighborhood, though, with a menu of homemade Slavic specialties like perogies, blinis, and the best damn blintzes this side of the fucking Russian Tea Room.

Besides that, the dimly lit, sparsely decorated neighborhood spot has cheap, strong drinks, a wide beer selection, and a bevy of downtown residents from every neighborhood south of 14th Street.

Shit, even I walk up here, and I’m from the Financial District.

I finally turn onto Avenue A, making the conscious decision—a decision I try to make as often as I can remember—to enjoy my luck while it lasts, because who knows what will fucking happen next.

The bouncer is perched on his chair just inside the Lush Republic entrance as I swing the door open. He gives me a nod of recognition, but he still takes out his flashlight to check my ID.

I’ve seen people up in arms about getting checked every damn time, but I understand. He cards everyone, no exceptions, because that’s his job.

Ryan spots me from the other side of the young, attractive, vaguely hipster weeknight crowd. He’s sitting at the bar by himself, with his black fleece jacket and his self-styled Ivy League haircut

Repocketing my ID, I walk straight through the crowd. Ryan waves me over as if I don’t fucking see him, as if I don’t know where to go.

Still wearing my tailored work clothes, I plow through the crowd seamlessly, my fellow patrons moving to the side instinctively. Ryan looks relieved as I take the spot next to him at the bar; he gets self-conscious about being here alone.

“What’s that?” I ask, pointing to his cup.

“This? Oh, just Jack and Coke. I asked for a Long Island Iced Tea, but the bartender told me they don’t do shit like that here.”

I can tell from Ryan’s breath that the bartender may have given him an extra shot or two to make up for those limitations.

“This isn’t the first time you’ve tried to order that here, is it?”

“No, but everyone who works here is different.”

I recognize the bartender, a large man in his late thirties, simultaneously preparing half a dozen mixed drinks, pouring vodka and spritzing mixer into a line of cups on the bar.

His iPod is connected to the sound system, and it’s playing something by the Monkees right now. One of their eighties reunion singles, I think.

“Have you ever asked Charles before?” I think Ryan knows the bartender’s name, but I’m being charitable right now and not calling him out.

“Probably.” Ryan pushes the straw aside and downs the rest of the drink. “Hey, Charles, could I get another when you get the chance?”

Charles turns up his iPod, and I catch some of the lyrics to the current song.

That was then. This is now…

I swivel to face Ryan completely as he stays hunched over his empty cup.

“Still have a tab open? Just make yourself right at home, why don’t you?”

“You know I’m no good at this sober. Not all of us are fucking Ethan Barrett.”

“I should hope not.” I turn back to the bar.

“You know what I mean,” Ryan says quietly, trying to keep the conversation from reaching anyone else. “In the looks department or whatever.”

“First of all, snap out of...this whole thing you’re doing right now. Seriously. Before it’s too late, or you just might end up by yourself here every night.”

I look up to see Charles hovering over me across the bar, his imposing, bearded face looking just friendly enough.

“What can I get ya?”

I’m not sure if Charles remembers me. There are probably thousands of guys just like me in here every week, each one of them thinking they’re hot shit for eschewing the posh Wall Street bars for a neighborhood dive on Avenue A. Fair enough.

“What he’s having,” I say, pointing to Ryan.

“See, I have some good ideas,” Ryan says with a grin.

I want to tell him to not flatter himself, but then I remember all the shit that has happened today, things that have me in such a maelstrom of confusion that I’m dipping in and out of denial.

I’m in no better shape than Ryan—than anyone here—because I’m so far from figuring it out that I’m not even thinking about it.

Charles places the fresh drinks in front of us. He doesn’t ask for money or whether I want to open a tab. He remembers me and has the situation sussed out just fine.

More lyrics from the Monkees song bleed into my dour meditation over the plastic cup.

I sigh, thoughts of today making my head spin. I try not to think about it too much. It’s a work situation now, and work will be the place to handle it.

Tomorrow.

Obviously, any personal aspect to it means nothing to her anymore. It’s time for me to let go.

In unison, Ryan and I both swing around to face the crowd. I can’t decipher, from the haze of smiling, buzzed faces, what the situation is tonight—only that every woman here seems to be with a guy or a guy-heavy group of friends.

Not the shit I feel like dealing with right now. I turn back to my drink.

“Whoa, what the fuck are you doing?” Ryan starts, his voice grating on my nerves.

“What?” I snap, a little too harshly.

“That’s not an empty fucking room you just turned away from,” Ryan yells, but then he abruptly lowers his voice and brings his whiskey-smelling face close to mine, “and you don’t see someone like her every night, and she’s been scoping you out for like two minutes.”

I know Ryan’s telling me about some chick somewhere behind me, the type of thing he always points out, but there’s something jarring about his description—that she’s unusual, a rarity in the world.

I spin around slowly, trying to be subtle, as if I’m checking out the crown molding up by the ceiling across the room.

I think I see the woman Ryan’s talking about. She’s sitting at a table nearby, ignoring two friends sitting with her, lightly moving a finger around the base of her martini glass.

Her hair is dark brown, and it’s long, falling to a few inches below her shoulders. The deep color provides a contrast to her bright, icy blue eyes—a combination that drives many men to the brink of insanity.

I turn back to my drink.

“What is going on, man?” Ryan’s trying to keep his voice low, but his frustration is bleeding into the conversation. “I’m legit getting worried.”

I take a huge swig of my drink, expecting it to be mostly cola. I should’ve known better.

As the copious amount of Tennessee whiskey scalds my throat, I feel the words starting to escape, unable to stay buried any longer.

“I saw Madeline today.”

Tom Waits is now caterwauling through the sound system as I wait for Ryan’s response.

“Hmm. Yeah.” That’s all he says. Did he even hear me correctly? “Oh...wait, what? Holy fucking shit. You mean the Madeline?”

I guess he did hear me. My stomach’s starting to tremble with deep unease, but that blast of whiskey is keeping the worst of it at bay. I guzzle down the rest of my drink.

“She works at the SEC now...”

“So it is that Madeline.”

“Yes, she’s investigating the firm.”

“What’s going on? Did I piss you off somehow? You’re fucking with me.”

“It was bound to happen eventually. I mean, with a firm rising that fast.”

“Yeah...” Ryan stares at his drink, dumbfounded. “That’s what you’re worried about? The investigation? I’ve been through that.”

“I know.”

“I remember that wedding, and Audra...and that whole thing. What was that, like, two years ago? Three?”

“Five.”

“Holy shit. Really?”

Charles is hovering in front of us again. With astute timing, as usual.

“You guys need another round?”

“You bet we do,” Ryan mutters.