It started as a normal Thursday evening, which in New York means something weird is going to happen.
Sophie suggested we all grab drinks at this new trendy bar in the West Village—one of those places where the cocktails have names like “The Brooding Philosopher” and “Midnight in a Glass.” I should’ve known we were doomed the minute Chaz showed up in a fedora.
Me: eyeing Chaz “Please tell me you’re going through a phase.”
Chaz: proudly tipping his hat “What, this? It’s part of my new vibe. I’m going for mysterious but approachable.”
Sophie: “You look like a magician who’s bad at his job.”
Chaz: “Exactly! People love approachable magicians.”
Tessa: whispers to me “He’s been wearing that thing all week. Yesterday, he tried to pull a quarter out of my ear. It was a nightmare.”
We settled into a corner booth, Tessa already clutching her phone like a life preserver, ready for the inevitable social disaster that is, well, us. The bar was packed, loud, and dark enough that you could lose an entire group of friends in the bathroom line. Naturally, Mark wandered off within five minutes to “look at the vintage arcade machine.”
Everything was going relatively okay—by our standards—until a couple at the next table started arguing. Loudly. Like, real HBO-level drama.
Woman: “I just don’t understand why you refuse to communicate with me!”
Man: sighing “Maybe because every time I do, you act like THIS?”
Sophie glanced over, trying to discreetly eavesdrop because of course she can’t help herself.
Sophie: “We should move tables. This is about to get ugly.”
Chaz: sipping his cocktail “Nah, this is good. Adds ambiance. Like dinner theater.”
Me: sarcastically “Oh sure, nothing says ‘relaxing night out’ like someone else’s emotional trauma playing out in real-time.”
Just when it seemed like the couple might calm down, the woman turned around and, for reasons I still don’t understand, locked eyes with us.
Woman: “You think I’m wrong, right?” she asked, clearly addressing our table.
Me: to no one in particular “Why is this happening?”
Tessa: panicking “Oh my God, don’t make eye contact, maybe she won’t see us—”
Chaz, being Chaz, decided this was his moment to shine. He leaned in, still wearing that ridiculous fedora, and nodded with the gravitas of someone who just solved world peace.
Chaz: “Look, I don’t know the whole story, but I’m pretty sure this could all be solved with some deep breathing exercises. You guys meditate?”
I don’t know how Chaz is still alive, considering the number of dangerous situations his optimism has thrown him into.
Woman: incredulous “Meditate?! MEDIATE, MAYBE, BUT NOT MEDITATE!”
Sophie: hissing “Chaz, for the love of all that is holy, stop talking.”
Tessa was practically shaking. Her worst nightmare—being dragged into someone else’s drama—was unfolding. And like a car crash, there was no stopping it.
Man: looking desperate “Listen, we don’t need strangers getting involved, okay?”
Chaz: “Nah, I got this. I’m a certified personal trainer, so I know a thing or two about conflict resolution.”
Sophie: “No you don’t. That’s not a thing.”
Woman: turning to Tessa “What do you think? He never listens! Am I wrong to be upset?”
This was it. The social apocalypse was upon us.
Me: looking at Tessa, internally begging her not to crumble “Say something neutral. Switzerland. Think Switzerland.”
Tessa: voice trembling “Uh, I—uh, well, um, you both seem like you have… really valid feelings?”
Silence. Just heavy, uncomfortable silence.
Sophie: nodding “Nice save. Totally nailed it.”
But no, of course it didn’t end there.
Woman: tearing up “You’re right. I do have valid feelings. And he never validates them! You—” pointing at me “You seem like you’re in a long-term relationship. How do you deal with someone who just ignores your needs?”
Me: choking on my drink “What? Me? No, no. I avoid relationships the way New Yorkers avoid Times Square.”
Sophie: trying to jump in “What he means is, relationships take a lot of work—”
Mark suddenly appeared out of nowhere, completely oblivious to the emotional war zone he’d just walked into.
Mark: cheerfully “Hey, they have Pac-Man in there! Who’s ready to lose?”
The man, clearly fed up with the entire situation, stood up and threw down some cash.
Man: “I can’t do this anymore. We’re done.”
With that, he stormed out. The woman sat down, stunned, and then burst into tears. This was the part where a normal group would probably feel bad and maybe even offer comfort. Not us. Nope.
Chaz: whispering to Sophie “So…is this a bad time to tell her about deep breathing again?”
Sophie: “If you value your life, you’ll never say anything again.”
Tessa was frozen, probably calculating all the ways this interaction could’ve been avoided. Meanwhile, I was trying to figure out if it was possible to die from secondhand embarrassment.
“You ever find yourself trapped in someone else’s breakup and think, ‘Yep, this is how I go out. This is the end’? Just me? Cool.”
Eventually, Sophie managed to convince the woman to go to the bathroom to “freshen up,” which was code for “please stop crying, I can’t handle this level of emotion.” As soon as she was gone, we all sat there in stunned silence.
Mark: oblivious “So, what’d I miss?”
Chaz: “Oh, just another example of how my advice really helped someone.”
Sophie: “If by ‘help’ you mean ‘made everything worse,’ then yes.”
Me: “I don’t even know how this happened. We were just trying to get drinks.”
Tessa: shaking her head “This is why I don’t go out. Ever.”
We left a few minutes later, trying to escape before the woman returned. On the way out, I bumped into the guy at the door, the one who’d just broken up with his girlfriend.
Guy: “Thanks for nothing, man.”
Me: sarcastically “Hey, anytime.”
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why you should never, ever, make eye contact with strangers in New York. It always leads to disaster.