April 24th 2013

He was going away.

“I’m Leaving New York City. For good.” He said. “…At least I am for now.”

raised

We                         our glasses

Shane, Meg and I. At a restaurant in the East Village named “Empellon Cocina”

We sat here.

And wished him best of luck at his new job in Chicago! We were really going to miss him. And we were especially going to miss his free fixes of our coffee tables and his drunk purchases of…deviled eggs.

I’m going to miss that shit.

We got our check. Paid it. And eventually Shane asked us if we wanted to stop by his neighborhood bar. Just to see the bartenders. And have a drink. At Toby’s. One.More.Time.

Of course.

Immediately upon our entrance the bartender reached over the counter and yelled Shane’s name. Told us we were with royalty and Toby’s just wouldn’t be the same without him. To please sit down and have one more drink!…And maybe a few more after that.

Your wish is our command, Bartender Dylan.

And what started as mild introductions with the locals and a throwback to the old times, ended in a slew of confessions that I’d never thought I’d hear.

From people I knew I didn’t know.

And probably never will.

And what I mean is this:

About halfway through my Six Point “Spice of life” beverage of choice, I asked Bartender Dylan what that hovering, glimmering object was above the impressive collection of bottled Merlot?

He told me it was a beaker. Of confessions. That people would leave here sometimes. They’d write them down on a piece of paper. Put them inside the beaker and then…that was that.

“…Can I read them?”

“Of course.”

Shane, Meg and I immediately turned the beaker completely upside u m o p.

Bottoms up.

uNcRinKlEd the slips of paper and began to read.

Here we go!

One. 

By.

One.

There were a lot. Some awesome, some disturbing, some ridiculous, some sad.

All great.

But only because they were anonymous. And only because they were true. And only because they were real.

So I took a picture of the ones that stood out to me the most. The ones that reminded me that we all have sins, confessions, and secrets. And the ones that solidified how ridiculously interesting we all really are, and how many stories we all really have:

Hopefully they’re all as sexy as the girl who wrote the confession before this.

Rumor has it these confessions are refilled, reread and retold on a weekly basis. So I told Toby’s that I would be back. Partially for the Six Point beer, and mostly to borrow that hovering, glimmering object above that impressive collection of bottled Merlot.

And then Bartender Dylan asked me what my confession was.

And I told him that he had already read it.

That one of the white-slip confessions above?

Was written by me.

Because when he turned around to serve another customer, I voluntarily decided to borrow his pen.

Which one is it?

I’ll tell you when I’ve finished writing the story.

Only because to date?

It’s the best story I’ve ever told.

But while we’re waiting,

I’d love to hear yours.