We were artists who weren’t making art and we settled for the only way to signal that we belonged to that class of free thinkers we wanted to be seen to be part of. We drank.

We were poor, too.

So we held a party the first Thursday of every month at our apartment and anyone was welcome. The deal was simple. We’d make gin gimlets, chilled and straight up, no rocks. Period.

If you didn’t want that, then you needed to bring your own.

And people did that. Beer. Wine. Vodka. Whiskey. Anything to avoid the gimlet.

Of course, a few tried one, but usually only one. Its sweet, citrus power was true and real. It went down well, but then exploded in the brain. Women had to step out of heels to walk the hall. Drivers had to be called to take people home. And the apartment was smeared with laughter and jazz and minds soaked in boozy lime slosh.

The best part was, at the end of the night, our gallon of gin was still nearly a gallon of gin. But a months worth of beer and wine and vodka and whiskey was left behind. So we could drink until the next first Thursday.

“I love this place!” someone said once. “It’s nothing but books and records! Why can’t I live here?!”

It was a funny thing to hear because no could really live there. Not for long, anyway.

Still we could go on believing we were artists, though we didn’t make art.