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The bartender’s first hoot is so clean and high-pitched it sounds piped in from the ceiling speakers — a single whooo that slices through the post-punk and clinking glassware. My friend Michael jolts on his barstool, beer sloshing dangerously close to the rim.
“Did you hear that owl?” he whispers.
“Not an owl,” I say, matter-of-factly, wiping condensation from my glass before it drips onto the bar. The bartender, in his mid-30s with slicked-back hair and an immaculate black apron, lets out another…
