Williamsburg, at last!

Fortified against the cold by my new peat coat, and against my own insecurities by my introduction to hipster music yesterday, I boldly sallied forth for Williamsburg this morning. My plan: go to a local coffee shop, crack open a hipster-approved tome (in this case, Infinite Jest, which by happenstance, I had already been reading) and wait to be noticed by my fellow hipsters.

I don't need to tell you, dear readers, just how excited the prospect of venturing into the breeding ground of hip made me, but like a gladiator heading into combat, I steeled my churning emotions and affected a disaffected reserve. I was tested the instant I reached the L train subway platform at Union Square. Oh the outfits! Oh the conversations! Oh the genuinely disaffected looks! It was almost more than I could bear, and I very nearly left for safer grounds. Then I recalled my two muses who had set me on this improbable quest. Would they have turned and run at this majestic sight? Would they have hyperventilated when an elfin girl with a bowl cut and a sailor's top stood next to them? Or would they have issued a veiled jab at her clearly store-bought clogs, then, superiority firmly established, taken her back to their artist's loft to engage in ironically conceived carnal acts with her?

The answer, I told myself, was self-evident, and fortified by the thought of my hipster progenitors, I managed to remain on the platform, board the train, and exit unscathed at Lorimer (I could not, however, bring myself to speak to the ingenue who stood beside me. I am a fast learner, my friends, but not that fast!) Upon emerging from that dim subway station, I felt I knew somewhat of the dark yearning felt by Milton's Lucifer upon viewing Eden for the first time. I coveted all I saw, smelt and heard, and stood, transfixed, on the top step of the staircase. If you have not had the pleasure of visiting Williamsburg, I dare not expose the limits of my own prose in trying to describe it; if you have, then you have undoubtedly already been transported in your mind to that magical place by the mere sight of its glorious name: Williamsburg!

It took repeated jostling from the commuters behind me to finally beak me out of my reverie, and I began to walk to my pre-selected coffee shop. Telling myself, "Fake it until you make it," I sullenly ordered coffee from a tattooed, pierced, thoroughly unpolite barista whom I'm sure I would have found attractive had she not been so intimidating. To my great good fortune, I was able to acquire a table immediately, and, coffee steaming in front of me, I cracked open Infinite Jest, and began to read. Or rather, tried to read. I was too excited by my surroundings, and resorted instead to furtively spying on my fellow hipsters. None, thankfully, were also reading Infinite Jest (although I suppose it may have afforded a natural opportunity to converse!), but I did note with interest their reading material: three Lethems, one DeLillo, and two volumes of McSweeney's.

Suddenly, I became aware that a pack of lean hipsters who had already picked up their orders were lingering by my table on their way out. I must have caught their eyes! Nervously, I turned the page, and pretended to be reading, as I listened intently to their conversation.

"I fucking hate people who start reading books just because the author died," said one to snickers.

Disaster! Oh, they had cut me to the quick! The truth was, I had entirely forgotten that morning about the tragic end of David Foster Wallace; even I, with my limited understanding of hipster code, would have known better than to have brought him of all people. My next actions were, to put it mildly, unfortunate. If only I'd taken the time to properly think out a plausible excuse--that I had started the book prior to David Foster Wallace's untimely demise, for example, or that I was the assistant teacher in a course on modern literature, or better yet, stay silent and take my licking like a man--but instead, I found myself speaking, and, horror of horrors, indignantly!

"I am not reading Infinite Jest; I am rereading it, and given the horrific end David Foster Wallace came to, I doubt there are many fans of his who aren't rereading his oeuvre."

I have, you see, a rather sharp tongue when I feel I've been attacked, and the instant the words left my mouth, I knew I had made a terrible mistake. I longed to drop to the floor and cower at their feet, begging for forgiveness, but I quickly saw that our little tete-a-tete had drawn the attention of our fellow coffee drinkers, including the hyperhip barista, and I realized that my only hope of avoiding complete and utter humiliation was to remain on the offensive.

"Well?" I asked, manfully crossing my arms, even as I silently pleaded with my eyes for him to take pity on me. Sensing my weakness, he curled his upper lip disdainfully.

"Oh, really?" he said with a slow, studied drawl that was devastating in its hipness. "So you already know how it ends, then, right? What'd you think?"

Once again, I found myself foolishly reacting to his question as if he were, say, John, or another of my less hip peers, with whom I was having an ordinary conversation.

"I think," I started slowly, picking up pace as I continued, "I think it's an affecting meditation on man's need to be known for who he truly is, and on his struggle to survive once he learns, as he must, that such a thing can never take place."

This paused the hipster only a nanosecond before he responded, "That doesn't even mean anything. You obviously haven't read it at all." He looked at me disdainfully, then uttered one more word before he and his posse turned and left: "Poseur."

The swiftness of his strike left me speechless, and I focused all my energies on steeling my face, knowing that all eyes were upon me. With a trembling hand, I reached for my coffee and took a loud sip, attempting to signal to my peers--or more accurately, my betters--that the show, such as it was, was over. I hoped for nothing so much as a moment of quiet in which to compose myself before I retreated home, tail between my legs. My wish, predictably, was not granted. No sooner than I had turned my sightless gaze back to that loathsome book than I became aware of yet another figure at my side.

What horror awaits me now, I thought to myself, and hunched down further over the book, hoping to create such a miniscule target that he or she would not bother with me.

"I thought that was really insightful, what you said," said the figure next to me. I looked up in shock. She--for it was unmistakably a she--was swarthy and stout, and even through her overstuffed winter coat, I could see that she had entered the gargantuan stage of pregnancy. In short, she was tragically unhip by the standards of Williamsburg, but in that moment, I could not have been more grateful than if it had been Kerouac himself.

"That's very kind of you to say," I responded, "But obviously, I was quite mistaken. Why else would he have taken such offense?"

To my surprise, she laughed, then patted me companionably on the arm. "You're funny," she said. "Are you some kind of professor?"

"No, no," I answered, somewhat bemused, "Just an amateur enthusiast."

"Well, thanks for the entertainment," she said, then patting me again on the arm, she waddled majestically out the door.

Though I can scarce countenance it, it seemed as though this kindly woman believed that I had gotten the better of the exchange! I knew that her opinion would carry little to no weight in the hipster community, but did the other witnesses think the same? There expressions were, to a man, inscrutable, and for one wild moment, I considered whether I ought to canvass the shop to find out the truth, but quickly realized such a move would seem desperate. Instead, I nervously finished my coffee, then left for home.

The ride back felt quite different from the trip out, as I was drained from the day's exertions, but thanks to that fertile coffee shop denizen, I was if not optimistic, then at least satisfied with the day's events. I had survived a day in the wilds of Williamsburg, and if I had suffered a defeat, at least it had not been a unanimous one!