1 AM Means 1 AM

Friday night, I need a drink. A stiff gin and tonic sounds nice. Now I don't mind shelling out five bucks for a single shot in a plastic cup. I don't mind the bartenders locking eyes with me until I drop a couple of crumbled singles on the bar as tip. I don't mind spilling half my drink as I squeeze past hordes of prissy, primpy girls and their "watch your step buddy" meathead boyfriends as I try and maneuver back toward the cramped corner I have established myself at. I don't even mind the fact that by the time I have resettled myself and begin conversation with a friend my drink is empty, forcing me to trek back through the crowds to the bar. What I do mind is having the lights blaze on at 12:55, have the bartenders stop serving me at 12:56, and have the bouncers glare at me as if I'm making them late for dinner with their families at 12:58.

In four years I have learned to work around the 1 AM curfew imposed on us by Ithaca. I understand and respect the social patterns that are dictated by this immature close to the evening. But 1 AM means 1 AM. Not 12:55, not 12:58, not 12:59 and a half. 1 AM. I'm a law-abiding citizen (sort of). Do not look at me like I am doing something wrong when I remain in the bar, arms folded, finishing off the last drop of flat tonic water that sits in the bottom of my cup. Leave me be. I'll be out by 1 AM.