Even leaning over the bar, under the influence of an incalculable quantity of cheap beers (“two for one with a ticket,” I’m warned almost immediately, “–don’t forget to use your ticket or they’ll charge you.”), the muscular stranger sitting to my right can hardly be described as slouching.  Two sips into my second (free, courtesy of aforementioned ticket) Pabst Blue Ribbon and my thin arms already pour over the bar like a timepiece in a Dali painting, while my neighbor radiates with a solidity that gives him the appearance of having been carved simultaneously with the bar from the same piece of wood.  He’s my age, maybe older, and prominently bulky without seeming fat, casually muscular without the chiseled tone of someone that works at being so.  He likely bulked up early in high school (Judgmentally, I assume football, or wrestling.  Too blue collar for lacrosse.  I’d wager big dollars against chess club), and via an assortment of labor-intensive jobs, he likely never had the opportunity for all that muscle to deteriorate into the fat that comes so easily to one’s body past the age of thirty.

For someone that surely would’ve avoided any attempt at talking to me in high school, he certainly seems overeager to do so now.

“What are your names?” he asks us, friendly enough, offering that his own is Greg.  Louise and I answer him, though she quickly leans in conspiratorially and speaks to me quietly enough to establish a level of privacy to our conversation that doesn’t extend to my new friend, but not so quietly that he might suspect we’re talking about him.

“I can’t believe this bar!” she tells me with excited trepidation.  ”I can’t even believe it exists in the middle of the city like this.”

“I love it.  It’s an actual dive!”  I’m genuinely excited to be at a dimly grungy and antiquated bar simply for the perfectly innocent level of trashiness that it exudes.  Not even a New York City resident yet, and already I’m acting like a hipster.

“Well, I only came here because there are two-for-one drinks,” she responds.

“Yeah, just don’t forget to use your ticket,” Greg offers.

“Thanks!” I smile, without actually understanding his point, before shutting out the stocky neighbor on my right once again in favor of the far more attractive neighbor on my left.  It’s not that I actively want to block the mildly soused Greg from our discussion;  I just need some quality time with Louise.  She is going to be my new roommate after all once I resettle from nearly three years of travel into The Greatest City On Earthâ„¢.  ”It doesn’t seem that bad here.  It’s got a kind of gritty 70′s charisma.  It’s dark, and smoky and… wooden…  I would totally hang out at a place like this.”

“No,” she whispers firmly.  ”I got here early and left to wait for you outside.  When I showed up, there was a guy running out with blood pouring out of his face!”  Decidedly odd for 5 pm on a Tuesday, I agree.

“Yeah, I probably wouldn’t hang out at a place like this…”  I signal the bartender.  ”PBR, please.  And a ticket..?”

“Ticket’s two for one.  But you gotta get both beers at once,” she explains.

“So you give me a ticket and then I give it back?”

“Yeah.  For the second beer–”

“–which I get at the same time?”

“Right.”  I manage to hold onto a small, yellow ticket stub for a few seconds, and two pints of America’s most beloved beer for a little bit longer than that.  We have an appointment with the cast of The Big Lebowski in just thirty minutes (the Blu-Ray of the movie is being released, and they’re celebrating with a Q&A session at the Hammerstein Ballroom in Manhattan), and it’s the kind of event that one should be both timely and mildly intoxicated for.

“You guys live around here?”

“Nah.  Well, not yet at least…”

“We’re going to be roommates!” says Louise excitedly.

“If all goes well, we’ll be moving into our spot in Brooklyn in the beginning of September.  I just got back to the States a few weeks ago after some extended traveling.”

“Me too,” says Greg.  ”Where were you?”

“Oh my god, he was everywhere!  He went to Antarctica and high-fived a penguin!”

“He didn’t actually high-five me back…”

“…and taught in China, and went to Africa!  It was like, the biggest trip ever.”

“It was ok.”  I pause, embarrassed in person by the same narrative that I ploddingly maintain a blog about online.  ”You just got back from a trip too?” I ask him.

“Yeah, I just finished a third tour in Afghanistan…”

“Oh.”

Greg has two kids, and they seem to be his primary reason for returning home from time to time.  Since joining the army right out of high school, he was shipped off to Iraq, fought in Somalia during the “Black Hawk Down” days, and has bounced back and forth between Iraq and Afghanistan for most of the past decade.  While Louise banters with the bartender, I listen as the previously mundane Greg regales me with stories of interesting and treacherous places that never managed to make it onto my travel roster, nor will they likely ever, much to the joy of my parents.

“So are you back for good?”

“No, I’m headed back to Afghanistan in two weeks for one last tour.  Found out I’ve got prostate cancer so it’s really the only option.”

“What?!”  I don’t exactly do a spit take, though my shock upon registering his previous statement is fairly visible.

“Between dying slowly over here or going out over there, it’s not even a choice.  But the main thing is, if I die over there, my kids’ll be well taken care of.  That’s why I’m doing it.”

“But prostate cancer’s got a good recovery rate.  Though I guess I’ve heard you can’t ever fuck again without viagra…”

“Yeah, you know about that, huh?  I’d never heard about it until I got diagnosed.  What a shitty side effect.  I dunno.  I don’t want to go through that.  The whole procedure… it’s just not for me.  Even if I make it, what would I do after that, you know?”  He shrugs.  ”I’ve thought about it a lot, and I know what I’m doing is the best thing for my family.  And there’s really no way I’d rather go out.”

“Hey, your choice, man.”  After a sip of beer, I profoundly add: “Sucks.”

“Yeah, it’s nuts but you know, I don’t even think anything about it anymore.  Maybe it’ll hit me harder when I’m back over there, but I’m kind of ready to go already.”  He pauses to finish his beer.  ”Cute girl.  She your girlfriend?”

“Nah, Louise is just an old friend.  She needs a roommate and I need a city to live in, so we work well together.”

“What do you do?”

“To tell you the truth, I have no idea.  I used to be a software developer, and I’ve done some writing in the past.  But right now I don’t have a fucking clue and I’m just kind of burning through more savings than I’d like trying to figure it all out.”  

I don’t add the obvious “but it could always be worse” addendum that still hangs in the air from Greg’s own story.  Louise tugs on my sleeve expectantly and I nod, quickly downing the last of my pint.  ”Well, we gotta get going, but it was nice talking to you.  Good—  Shit!  I was about to say ‘Good luck over there in Afghanistan,’ but that just seems wrong to me now.”

“You’re going to Afghanistan?” Louise asks, rejoining the conversation.  ”Wow!  Be safe!”

“Hah.  I don’t think she heard my story,” Greg says.

“Probably not,” I tell him, shaking his hand.  There are so many strange, interesting and dangerous paths a life can take.  Whether or not Brooklyn ends up being the right choice is still very much in the air, but one thing’s for certain: It’s sure as hell got nicer weather than Kabul.