Stumbling home off the L in Bushwick two weekends ago, I was surprisingly sober (for the most part) until I got to my apartment. I live on the third floor of a converted factory and all is quiet for the most part. Nobody in my building pays any mind to each other and it feels like one giant soulless hole filled with individuals who do not acknowledge reality. Upon unlocking the door I was hit with a giant bass thump. “What the hell was that,” I thought. Just then my doorbell rings.
I answered it and before me stood a girl and four very handsome guys. “Is this John’s place,” the boy in front asked with a smirk. Responding no to them I was then asked where the public bathroom was. “Who has to pee,” I questioned. Turns out the little lady could barely hold it and I invited them in. Afterwards, I grabbed my unopened bottle of vodka and headed to the rooftop.
The roof door swung open and I spotted about sixty or more hipsters and other assorted types jumping up and down all with various kinds of beer in their hands. I was surprised to discover my new joint was such a happening place and I can barely handle hipsters but these folks were different. A girl introduced herself to me and admired my coral red pants. We chit chatted for a bit until it was time to head back downstairs to fix a few iced V’s (vodka on the rocks).
Back upstairs the makeshift bar was handing out obscure brands of beer which I didn’t even think were produced passed 1979. “What band is this,” I asked the curly haired boy on the ledge. Never heard of them but they were called Tropical Punk and had a sound that reminded me of 90’s alternative with a good helping of punk. How nice. One more band went on after them and the place slowly cleared out. I guess that’s what you get on a summer night on the rooftop of The Tea Factory. Welcome home.
