I spent the summer of 2015 deeply and passionately trying to understand what it would mean to be a New Yorker in their twenties. I’d lived in the Big Apple all my life, but spent 100% of my time chilling on couches in the homes of my friends’ moms, all of whom were named Sharyn. If I were to live the hip, urbane life that I felt was my birthright, I had to make some changes, and get into what I’d heard was a thriving New York bar scene. I was 20 at the time, so I knew I had to do it (if you’re a law enforcement officer stop reading now) illegally, and armed with my (again if you’re a law enforcement officer I’m really going to have to insist you stop reading right away) Ohio fake ID, I had my ticket in.

Not content to work my way up, I shot for the moon. The first sceney bar was Kinfolk 94 in Williamsburg, which was hosting a well-known (I guess) dancehall DJ. I was out of my league, both racially and hipness-wise. I had come with a friend who left after fifteen minutes, so I spent the next thirty minutes awkwardly nodding my way around the bar, accompanied only by my empty Five Points Ale can. I had promised myself I wouldn’t leave until I’d spoken to one person (…………..why?), so I tried to talk to a woman who I thought might be like “hi” but was instead like “wait no.” Fair enough. I left the bar in shame.

While I didn’t know it then, though, this would be a story of triumph. The next summer I returned to the bar for a magazine release party, this time with the law on my side and a cute shirt and some hip shoes. I finally felt, if not actively embraced, that I could drink my Five Point Ale in comfort and peace. I had left Sharyn’s couch.