I used to frequent a corner bar in TriBeCa that looked like the setting of a Hopper painting. It was down the street from the college where I taught intro literature courses, and I decamped there in the early afternoon for a beer or two while slogging through freshman essays on Blake. But I didn’t get much work done. The company was too interesting: ironworkers, painters, sculptors, people whose workdays started unusually early or uncommonly late — people for whom daytime is nighttime. And unlike their after-dark counterparts, no one was there to party. Pretty soon, I gave up my lonely corner banquette to join the guys sitting at the bar. I never looked back.

Drinking in the day is an occasion unto itself, to be enjoyed on its own congenial terms. And there are terms. It shouldn’t lead to drinking all night. It can’t happen all the time. There is such a thing as starting too early. That said — we’re all adults here, aren’t we? — after lunch sounds about right. There’s still time before the rackety after-work crowd descends; the pace is calmer; and this is the best time to get to know your bartender. Whatever you’re drinking, you’re more likely to savor it.

At the little Brooklyn bar where I work one day shift a week, a half dozen bar stools are usually occupied by regulars: among them a chef, a craftsman and a musician. Friendships form quickly among those who drink together in the afternoon, and Louis Armstrong’s music sets the tone for talking — about sports, about food, about politics, plus a few terrible jokes. Eventually, jazz gives way to my preferred playlist on the house iPod. As soon as he hears the opening chords of “Roadrunner,” Eric, the musician, says: “The Modern Lovers. Total bartender rock” — by which he means the stuff that bartenders, left to our own devices, play the most (at least in Brooklyn). The rest of us nod in agreement and toss out other names that fit the genre: T. Rex. The Black Keys. Sam Cooke. Johnny Cash. Talking Heads. Nick, a fellow bartender, paraphrases Justice Potter Stewart’s definition of pornography: Not all bartender rock is rock, but we know it when we hear it.

On the back patio, three young women laugh and drink vodka sodas, take pictures on their phones, kick off their shoes and spread out on the benches that catch the most sunshine. And that’s the joy of it: they know they’re getting one over, if just for today. Day drinking is subversive, and springtime — helpmate to idleness and leisure — has a way of making us want to play hooky. Jessica, a neighbor, stops by and says: “I feel like gin. Just make something up.” That might be maddening on a Saturday night, when the bar is three-deep, but on a quiet afternoon, there’s time to experiment. It’s no trouble, and, after all, I’m among friends.