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“That’s a lucky seat, Miss,” says the lone daytime drinker, standing on the side of the road outside a Bloomingdale housing complex. With one hand, he’s holding a clear plastic cup half-full with a golden liquid. With the other, he’s indicating the seat of my bicycle, which currently supports my ass.
Generally, that sort of greeting is an excuse for me to keep my ass glued to that seat and pedal on. For this guy, I make an exception: It’s one of the more polite versions of the classic cyclist cat-call I’ve heard, and hey—-this guy is drinking during the day!
When I stop, the catcaller reveals the source of the golden drink: Today, his inspiration for hollerin’ comes courtesy of some malt liquor from a friend’s 40.
It’s certainly a beautiful day to bring the party outside—-when it’s 65 degrees and sunny, why resign your daytime drinking to elaborate basements? But the catcaller insists that his outdoor cocktail hour has nothing to do with the weather. “They wear less clothes when it’s hot out,” he admits. But he insists that he’s out here, surveying Q Street’s female offerings, rain or shine. “They come out in the winter too, believe me,” he says.
He’s usually got a drink in hand—-if not something else. “If it’s not a drink, it’s the other thing, you know what I’m saying.”