Stop the presses! We just might have a job for the Generation Debt squad here. Williamsburg’s nouveau poor—aspiring actors, fledgling experimental filmmakers, ambitious garage rockers, and other struggling idealists—have been spotted trekking two blocks east of Bedford and disappearing behind a door on North 9th Street marked only as “221.” The reason? Free pizza. For just $5—the price of a stiff well drink—the next Iggy Pop can enjoy the delicious brick-oven pie he deserves. The less fortunate are forced to settle for $3.50 Buds, but nay, they are not neglected—enough doughy soakage is provided for another three bottles’ worth of medicine. The sound of loneliness echoes within the expansive brick walls and bounces off the high ceilings, and solemn faces are cast in the glow of dim red lights. The desperate and frustrated shoot computer-animated deer in the bar’s back room, while intoxicated pool players sink the wrong balls. Some pace the long balcony above, even contemplate jumping, but the reasonable ones—survivors—knock on its wooden railing. Others chain-smoke on the second-floor patio, shake their fists toward the heavens, and curse an unresponsive god.
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