One Night at Usenix
An honorary Tuesday, in light of the quantity of beer consumed.
I’m sitting in the Usenix hotel lobby, hacking over Wavelan. String quartet Metallica covers are feeping from Mickey’s laptop speakers. Niklas is unconscious across the table from us. Mickey and I are sharing a bottle of Scotch as we attempt to break the tree — or was it fix the tree? The details are fuzzy.
Ah yes — we went on another walkabout tonight. This nightly ritual started as a seemingly simple hunt for an open bar. We were in town for a Hackathon, and none of us really knew our way around, so when we got thirsty, we would simply leave the hack room and walk rapidly in whatever direction our spider-senses told us must have beer. As we found ourselves further and further from civilization, we would query passing locals in friendly, foreign sounding ways, asking them where to find beer. Vague replies and gestures would follow, and we would take off in a new direction until we were told everything was closed.
A few nights ago however, the technique met with spectacular results. In the week leading up to Usenix, we had been hacking in a room at MIT, across the river. After several nights of trying, we came to the unfortunate conclusion that you can’t drink in Cambridge after 11pm, so we had a friendly local direct us to a train that would take us to Boston. Unfortunately, by the time we got there, it was a few minutes to close. Niklas took over.
“I am from Sweden, and I would like a beer,” he pronounced clearly.
The bouncer thought about it. It was a convincing argument. Looking carefully to both sides, he leaned a little closer, saying softly, “Go down that alley. Second door on the left.”
Curious, we did. Upon entering the unmarked door, we found ourselves in a lively, after-hours pub. Hardly believing our fortune, we loaded up on libations. Unfortunately, by the time morning rolled around, we had entirely forgotten the location of the wonderful unmarked door.
Since that night, our reputation for finding beer at odd hours had spread. Accordingly, the nightly quest for beer had taken on a new tack: find the after-hours bar. This is how we came to find ourselves wandering the streets of Boston, 40 minutes to close, with a gaggle of thirsty geeks in tow. They had complete faith in us. Odd, since our record was only about one in three.
Confidently, we set out from the hotel, picked a direction at random, and started marching.
15 minutes later, we hadn’t yet broken stride. Nor had we seen any kind of bar. The masses were getting nervous, yet we seemed confident, so they followed.
20 minutes elapsed. We passed the bar the world knows as Cheers — closed, of course. We paused to admire an especially large rat that was crossing the street. “Nice poodle” someone noted.
At the 25 minutes mark, we came across a bar. It wasn’t Boston’s friendliest, and it wasn’t the now-legendary after-hours, but it was still serving. We approached the front door, and the scowls of the bouncer seated there. In an attempt to drive us off, he demanded ID.
Bad move.
As the increasingly irritated bouncer hunted for birthdates in passports from a half-dozen different countries, the clock moved inexorably toward close. We began to doubt our decision to stop for the easy beer. At long last, however, we were through the door. Orders were placed and within minutes we found ourselves in possession of two Guinni each. Just then, the bell rang for last call.
We smiled. We had done it again.
The beers were consumed, and when the bar staff finally ejected us from the premises, it finally occurred to us that we didn’t actually have to walk everywhere in this strange town. Three minutes and five dollars later, the taxi delivered us back to the hotel. Most crashed. Three of us and a bottle of scotch remained.
And that’s how we got here.
I reach over to grab the bottle of scotch and realize that Mickey has passed out in his chair, one arm cradled around his Thinkpad, the other around the now-empty bottle. Niklas is still out cold. As I reach over to move the laptop to safety, Mickey shifts and pulls it closer. The Thinkpad isn’t going anywhere. Admiring his dedication, I leave him for the cleaning vultures and hope for the best. Anyway, the sun is up.
kj · PDDIV
Leave a Reply
Copyright © · 2009 · 2008 · 2007 · 2006 · 2005 · 2004 · 2003 · 2002 · 2001 · 2000