I have a safe space that I go to when I am either happy, sad, or just in the area. This is a happy, magical place in the basement of a rundown building in the West Village of Manhattan and is so good at serving cocktails that Thomas Paine actually died there. It has one piano, which the congregants gather around to sing, arms interlocked, to the happiest soundtracks known to humanity. This is the kind of place where you can walk in at 8 pm on a Friday night and see a crowd belting out the works to ‘Do Re Me’ from The Sound of Music without a shred of irony. I love this place, and it loves me.
But last week as I was sitting there a group of witches came in. Before you come at me with your #metoo hashtags, I am not being misogynistic. They were literally dressed as witches because of Halloween weekend: pointy hats, striped socks, broomsticks and, in a sickening turn of events, they held fake Starbucks cups with the words #basicwitch scrawled on them in sad, loopy writing. This coven of horrors was obnoxious and loud, bumping into patrons and leaving their broomsticks where anyone could trip over them. I was sitting at the bar between a gap of seats, and so they kept coming up behind me to place their orders. Eventually, emboldened by their revolting brew of what I can only assume was a white wine spritzer, one of them leaned over to me and began stroking my black leather jacket.
“So soft,” she purred, crosseyed.
“Why are you touching me?”
“Because I want to,” she replied.
“Please stop.”
“She just wants to feel you dude,” said a second witch, her hair long and dark as her probable soul. “Just chill.”
I ignored them but, having spoken to one, the whole group began circling around me like vultures around a carcass. The familiar teasing conversation began. What are you doing here? (Dying slowly while talking to you) What do you do? (Avoid witches with verbal incontinence) and where are you from (Pakistan. Boo!). I was trying to lose them and listen to the song and eventually got so irritated by the constant badgering that I said “I don’t mean to be rude, but I am really not looking to chat right now. OKthanksbye.” This was a mistake.
A short blond girl with a pumpkin drawn on her nose downed her glass and spat in it. “You know what?” she began loudly, “Why don’t you go back to Pakistan where you came from, loser.”
There are few moments in life where the drama in one’s head actually materialises in reality. This was one of those blissful moments, because the minute she began talking the piano was between songs and so the whole bar was completely silent as her words echoed off the oak beams into the rest of the room. People turned around to stare at her.
“What did you say?” the bartender, standing a few feet away, demanded.
William Edward Frost - 'The Witches'
One of the other witches, realising the tides had turned on them, began pulling at her sister’s robes to warn her to shut up but she was too far gone by this stage. “Just go back!’ she continued. “Like, what’s even the big deal about talking to us? Loser!”
The rest of the patrons were now staring at them stone-faced. The bartender, a man called Mike, leaned across the bar and tapped her on the arm. “You ladies better leave now. I think you guys have had enough.”
“C’mon Britney,” the first witch said, pulling her friend’s arm. “Sorry, she’s just a bit drunk. Ignore her…”
“Ignore me?” Britney snarled, snapping her arms away from her friend and looking back at me. “You’re the one who should go. Go! Go! Go back!”
By this time the bartender had walked around and begun to physically escort them out. I think Britney was a bit tipsy and I may have been a bit short, but years of micro-aggressions have instilled in me a cruel instinct.
“One minute, Mike,” I said, raising myself to my full height. I stared at the group and smiled my creepiest serial killer grin. Britney had by this staged realised there was no music playing and people were scowling at her but I could still see the defiance in her eyes.
“What?” she sneered. “What you gonna do now?”
I smiled. “Britney, is it?” I said in a sweet voice. “Mark my words on this Hallows eve,” I said as I leaned right next to her ear so that only she could hear me, “for this stranger’s prediction will be your truth: You will die alone, Britney. Alone, unknown and unloved.” I stood back up, stared at her again and returned to my seat. As I turned to see her group being escorted out Britney was still looking at me, her eyes wide now with a mixture of fear and something else. Soon enough the music began playing again and the incident was forgotten.
“I’m sorry about that,” Mike said, sliding a free drink towards me. “Halloween brings out all the crazies.”
Maybe. But the one thing I do know is that crazies, like all bullies, come in every shape, size and colour.
That said: when I think of the incident now it’s not the one crazy that stood out to me, but the room full or normal people who were considerate to a stranger they saw as one of their own.
