D&B: A Pizza Fam PhotoStory <3
I remember his first real night out in New York City. Shitfaced in Bushwick at some semi-friend's birthday soiree. Fresh off the west coast, he was green and open; nowhere to be found a few hours later as the party began to wind down. The next day he told me he woke up outside of the Paper Box, disoriented, but undisturbed, a handful of missed calls to prove that we, his new friends, weren't complete animals.
Two and a half years later, words can hardly describe the magic of the family we've all built. Work and play immaculately interwoven throughout the tangled webs of Crown Heights culture. No need for calls or confirmations, always a handful of 'hood hideaways with fluid assortments of crew coming and going. It's that rare sensation of genuine community, of real home, inside a city of over eight million.
Still, it's a slippery slope, service life. Odd hours and vice fast form a new norm in an industry filled with artists and vampires. Move up too quick, or stay too long - always the imminent fear of never getting out.
To keep from said crash, he plans a retreat back west, taking his BK Beauty, our adventurous little sister, along with. Before they disappear, we vow to celebrate their love; coordinate one last she-bang to let them know that they'll be missed proper.
Of course he doesn't want a party though. In fact, of all the cool shit to capitalize on in one's last days in NYC, the only thing he says he reeeeally wants is to go to Dave & Buster's. Like the Times Square, grown-up Chuck E. Cheese chain, Dave & Buster's.
Ever the supportive fam, a Dave & Buster's farewell it is.
For over a week we secretly plot the Thursday morning endeavor. When the day finally comes, we try to board the train in staggered groups in hopes of keeping the surprise under wraps. With MTA delays and serendipitous timing, there's a run-in at Hoyt Street that nearly blows it all. But alas, semi-believable stories spun from homie's ass, give us grace to pull a quick cover.
We arrive in time to pre-order a beer tower as greeting, then spy on the host stand to stay ready. Once our target is spotted, we duck down in the booth, shushing and squishing, giddy with excitement.
"Surprise!" we all shout as he rounds the corner into the dining area.
"You guyyyyssss," he gushes coyly.
It's like we're fuckin' twelve...Except with PAX pre-games and pints of backpack tequila passed between bathrooms stalls, a sheet of acid dropped discreetly by a select few. Having work later, I refrain from the latter, staying just sober enough to maintain my capacities.
Even sans psychedelics, the love and colors mesh to form an artfully crafted mosaic - an unbelievable amalgamation of beautiful souls and energy untold.
Shots and game cards are doled out by Mama Bear. The Singer and The Philosopher go head to head in animated road races, while Our Lady of Liquor conquers the legacy left by the king of rock and roll. Free throws and fruit ninjas, 3D simulations, and air hockey upsets; we bop from task to task with unguided glory.
Alive in our youth, down to every fiber; shamelessly basking in simple pleasures and childhood games. It's a warmth that radiates regardless of time and place.
only true friends brave Times Square
