My Id, My Superego and I called an Uber to go to a party in the East Village on a warm, starry April evening. After two failed attempts to get into our car — apparently Toyota is making black Camries only for Uber- I sat between My Id and My Superego as we were in “life”.
The heavy “Norwegian Pine” car scent and two shots of tequila we had before going out, made us nauseous. Better we felt with the breeze we were crossing the Brooklyn Bridge.
The driver wanted us to get out when she stopped at a red light a street away from the final destination- she didn’t want to stop twice. The bluntest of us, Id started to argue with her- “We are paying for every inch of this ride,” he said, and I agreed. As if he was talking to NPR, Superego explained: “Do you know how tiring is to stop-n-start for hours, and have you ever heard about the environmental effects of frequent stop-n-starts.” We obeyed and got out of the car. I was ready for another night where I had to satisfy the wild desires of Id in a realistic and socially acceptable way while dealing with Superego, an internalized power figure, always punish me with feelings of guilt and shame.
With his leather jacket and neck tattoos, the bouncer complimented us by controlling our IDs to prove we are over 21 although we all are in our early thirties. We walked in the dark, unventilated dive bar Purple Haze with Bruce Springsteen’s, Born in the USA as we were walking into our wedding venue after thinking about our entrance song for the last six months. Our friends and friends of theirs were already waiting for us. We kissed our friends and shook hands with their friends. Everyone was feeling good. We all loved being in caliginous bars with good old friends and new friends-to-be.
A moment after we sat down Id, who was babbling about his hunger and thirst in the car, waved frantically to grab the waiter’s attention. He always wanted to be the cool waiter-caller but he could never keep it calm when he was hungry and thirsty. Id, Superego and I ordered pints of lagers while our friends preferred to start their night with the bar’s signature cocktail, The Purple Cloud. Purple Haze is famous for its delicious fried chicken wings. The perfectly fried chicken wings that we love the tender, moist and fatty meat inside the crispy skin. Id ordered four plates for seven of us.
The beers came first to accompany the small talk- the kind of topics that you talk with your colleagues every morning in the elevator, the topics that every city has its own — Traffic for Los Angeles, last night’s dinner for Napoli, and the weather for New York City. While everyone was warming up with each other, Id was flirting with our high school best-buddy Andy’s cousin Tanya. “This is a dangerous dalliance,” Superego whispered into my right ear. “You know Andy, and you know Id, so this would cause him an old friendship.” I could see the excitement on Id’s face but Superego was right; he had to stop. I poked his knee and as we were playing telephone as we were in kindergarten, I whispered into his right ear; “Superego. says you should stop”. Our Casanova stopped; winked to Tanya and added: “I’ll text you later.”
The wings and the second round of beers came. Superego helped the waiter to place the plates on the table. He wouldn’t miss an opportunity to contribute to society and relieve his conscience. He gently pushed them to the middle. Hungry like a wolf Id tried to pull the plates towards him, but Superego managed to keep the plates close enough to the center. He asked Id to hold until someone takes the first wing. It was hard for Id but he obeyed. As soon as Andy cleaned the first bone from the meat, Id started. He was looking for the moments when someone was in the middle of a story or on the punchline of a joke to swiftly grab one more wing. This went on until the last the wing. Superego, then sitting by Id after I made him stand up to go to the bathroom, pulled his arm back when he realized he was reaching to grab the last wing and whispered: “Please, don’t embarrass me”.
After a couple more bears, almost at the end of a beautiful night, two drunk, tall men in their blue jeans and tight black t-shirts approached our table as two mysterious objects approach a spaceship. First, I thought they were Tanya’s friends because one of them was rising his arm to put it around her. We all realized they were when she flinched sharply. I saw Id clenched his right hand under the table and put his left hand on our unexpected guest’s left hand. His urge to save someone from danger was controlling his actions. Superego, our diplomat, knowing Id’s temper and burning desire to punch the danger, placed his hand on top of their hands, building a hand tower, and calmly but seriously asked the guys to leave. “You better do so” added Id.
That was a good closing to our night. I did the universal air signing gesture to ask for the bill and paid our share. After a quick debate to take the train or to call an Uber, Id, Superego, and I. flagged a yellow cab. On the way back I had to listen to their continuous fights about instincts — hunger, sex, and violence- versus social acceptance.
This time riding back on the Manhattan Bridge, I was trying to recognize the Woolworth Building through the lights of the Brooklyn Bridge and thinking about my homework. It was a regular Saturday night for me with those whom I know the best, my Id and my Super Ego.
My other stories:
Just Ordered A Baby From Amazon Crane
When Mark Zuckerberg Was Reading My WhatsApp
