“We should probably meet for a drink first.” That was the consensus as I arranged for myself and two friends to attend the “Rescue Me” fireman singles party Wednesday night at a bar on the Bowery.
All of us are single, but none of us go to singles events on a regular basis. Still, I found something alluring about a party in which the only men in attendance were firefighters, and convinced T. and H. to tag along.
T., who usually goes for crunchy, hippie types, had absolutely no interest in meeting anyone and was convinced the entire thing would be cheesy. She showed up in jeans. H. and I were slightly more excited, wearing dresses and wedges and fluffing our hair in the bathroom of a bar down the street before we headed over.
As we approached the location, the doorman clarified: FDNY event? We nodded yes. A handsome, hunky guy standing off to the side teased, “You don’t look like firemen.” We laughed. And then he followed us in. It was the first — and for me, the last — flirtation of the evening.
When we checked in, we were given a sheet of questions intended to be ice-breakers. It seemed like it would be easy enough to make the rounds, asking questions.
Once inside, it was clear that the odds were pretty bad.
“What’s the ratio?” I frowned at H.
“60/40? Not in our favor.”
As our eyes swept over the faces in the crowded bar, we saw men — all clean-cut, short-haired or bald, all in dress shirts or casual western shirts — surrounded by women. Often there were three or four women circling one man; sometimes it seemed that there were as many as ten women around two men. Almost all of the guys were built — strong, thick-necked, muscular — and a few seemed a little over-developed. T. had a look of disdain on her face as she surveyed one particularly steroid-ish dude.
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
