The young lady in our living room was clutching a vodka-tonic and talking incessantly. She was wrapped in an iridescent scarf and fist-sized jewels dangled from her ears. With a genteel Southern drawl and the regular flashing of her anchorwoman smile, she detailed the virtues of South Carolina, boating and the abolition of the income tax.
We were in Washington, D.C., and I was drinking in large gulps while eyeing her with a touch of suspicion. One got the feeling that she was: (a) disingenuous, (b) dangerously attractive or (c) made mostly of plastic. She laughed a little too easily and, without question, her hair was a little too blonde. And then there was her friend. She was accompanied by a curious gentleman who, without explanation, was sporting a bowtie, New Balances, and a swelling potbelly that seemed far too prominent for his age. He was sitting quietly in the corner of our suite, amusing himself by lighting matches and putting them out with his fingers. It was all, needless to say, very strange
After a few more drinks it only got stranger. The young woman-who, for our purposes, we will call, say, Tammy-explained both that she came from a long line of segregationists and that she had recently established a serious affection for cocaine. She informed us of the latter by noting-in between knowing smiles and a lady-like blush-that she “you know, liked to go skiing…in powder.”
As I marveled at the notion that college-educated segregationists still existed, I gave my roommate a sharp glance. Without the aid of words I communicated my concern: perhaps we should have thought a little harder before inviting ol’ Tammy back to our apartment.
I should stop here, as I imagine that all of this begs two unavoidable questions. First, where would one encounter such characters? And perhaps more importantly, why should any of you care? The answer to both, dear reader, is simply Happy Hour.
During my summer in D.C., I came to recognize the beauty-and unpredictable nature-of Happy Hour; as such, I have been moved to spread the gospel. On the most fundamental level, Happy Hour offers an opportunity to, if only briefly, set aside the stresses of the day and join in camaraderie with co-workers or fellow students. It presents a momentary reprieve from one’s long list of responsibilities, and, in effect, provides a moment to simply exist. For once, one can safely be unproductive.
But most important, Happy Hour gives you the chance to meet people-and kooks-like Tammy. Happy Hour, at least in D.C., seems to be an opportunity for the city’s eccentrics to come together and have drinks before dark. In addition to the snow-bound Tammy, my roommates and I encountered a host of notable characters: we were offered shots by a gentleman who sells, among other things, personalized gavels to members of Congress and local justices; we met a woman who was lobbying to add animals to the Bill of Rights; and finally, we sat near-though did not approach-former C.I.A. director George Tenet in a Georgetown bar. Surely, our time could not have been better spent.
My point is this: while your work will be never-ending, opportunities to meet the likes of Tammy or a geriatric gavel salesman will be few and far between. Make sure to take the time to appreciate the sheer oddity of humanity by sitting down for a drink every now and again. Just make sure to keep them out of your apartment.