but the world’s oldest diner, on the side of the loneliest road, on the anniversary of the night some nutjob died gruesomely. Dude, Ford, if you’re getting us into some kind of Pulp Fiction situation – rough the door we whisked. e change was drastic, from drab, sweaty casino oor to… fabulous glittering mayhem… Warp speed shellshock . It was a rainbow mirrorball inside a mirrorball room, ashing re ections of light, almost blinding. Cursing to ourselves in disbe- lief. Heavy bass thumped just beyond. And we kept going, further, another galley door, back into the darkness of a … New York subway? Egad, yes, a subway. My legs buckled. It was a dierent world altogether. No need for acid. I couldn’t make words. Huxley, behind me, was also mute. What the fuck. We were in a subway station. ere was a subway station at the Linq . Was this a bar? Was this a diner? Were we in a show right now? Our guide sensed sheer terror and tried to reassure. “We’re open to 11. So if you’re hungry, go eat, come back and come see me. No cover! Come vibe with us. is is as slow as you’ll ever see it, ‘cause my show just let out.” “Just because you’re a great salesman, we’ll get a drink, how ‘bout that,” Ford cackled. What had they discussed? “I love these guys!” Ross bellowed. “I love these guys. Enjoy it. Enjoy it my friends. ” He moved on to greet another group, and we stood stupeed. “Shake Your Groove ing” was blasting at full volume. A butch person in a long wig danced on rollerskates, and everyone else was dressed to the gills. It was dingy and glowing, so much glowing. Almost nothing could articulate our abject confusion. Even worse was the question of what to do with the little information we had. Carry on? Pretend nothing was happening, everything was ne? Along one wall was what looked like a cramped magazine stand, under huge signs: “CANDY - BEER - NEWSSTAND - MAGA- ZINES - CIGARETTES”. It was covered, oor to ceiling in vintage tabloids and comic books, all wrapped in mylar. Sunglasses, cans of nuts, all the roadside necessities in back. ere were huge old packages of Dots, Mentos and other candies in display cases that doubled as a coun- ter, with diner stools. It was denitely a bar. We could assume that much. Dumbfounded, we took the closest seats. To my side hung a Life Magazine from 1971 featur- ing Edmund Muskie. At the far wall, a subway tile mosaic emphasized a large emblematic “P”
and “Prince St.” underneath in black. Every inch of this place was smudged with decades of lth, all coming to life in a glowing gold and purple terrarium. e room was other- wise divided into a selection of seating – half basement-style, vintage couches and every retro furniture piece that could go with – and the rest, oddly paired, two-toned vintage booths like an old Burger King. Over in the corner, next to a milkcrate stacked with newspapers was an old telephone booth – not unlike the speakeasy trick door at Planet 13. I dared not go in. Get a grip. Breathe. Although there were a few other people in the bar, we could hear a crowd behind us – up the mysterious, gra ti-laden, blacklit stairs. Whatever was happening was a real bloodbath up there – screeching in agony. Torture? At a Vegas bar? en again, if this was just a dive, why was everyone – everyone, even the custom- ers – dressed like they belonged here? en I realized, the three of us were dressed for the occasion too, me, in ne old corduroy, vintage knit sweater, classic Chucks and giant afro, and the other two in their own accidental shag… Was this e Shining? A time warp? Blinking hard, casting glances all around, trying not to look like paranoid unabombers while we grapple with this… Maybe it's an all-immersive experience, I told my bewildered posse. Creative anachronism on the far side. e only other explanation – purely plausible at this point – was that we’d entered a next-level escape room. “What’s the rush - we’ve got time!” Ford shrugged. He’d explained to the man that we were looking for steak, but in his crooked logic he thought he was doing the guy a favor, like this hatless Mad Hatter was trying to herd us into a bar for kickbacks. And maybe that's why we expected strippers. Or worse. “I’ve got nothing in my stomach. We’re gonna get fucked up too quick,” Huxley grumbled. He opened the menu, printed on another subway map. “What’s the drink to get at a place like this?” “We have a when-in-Rome situation,” I shrugged. Our bartender had been kindly pre- tending to ignore our petried rambling. “John, what drink are you known for?” It was the Gentleman's Exchange , with Rittenhouse Rye, Cocchi di Torino, Suze, Foro, cold brew and absinthe. Ford and I both ordered one. Huxley nursed his signature whiskey coke. Clearly there was no steakhouse here. Or
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