For a few minutes, it felt as if we really might go through with it. This must’ve been 1996. It was past closing time at the Liquor Store (a much-missed TriBeCa corner bar). An indulgent bartender dimmed the lights and locked the door and let a few regulars stay. After many hours of drinking and talking, crazy notions take hold, and two painters and I got it in our heads that we should catch a cab as soon as the sun rose, go straight to J.F.K. and get on whatever flight would take us the farthest, cheapest. But in that bright light of day, we realized that, for us, cheapest couldn’t possibly be cheap enough. With one credit card and about $30 in cash among us, our dream was quickly dashed. But it was a good dream while it lasted.

If day drinking is the most freewheeling way to occupy space on a bar stool, late-late-night drinking is the deepest and, frequently, the weirdest. It can feel a bit like detention, if you can imagine something like a deliberate detention — for grown-ups, with drinks.

This is when the guy in the pajamas bursts through the door — and explains nothing. When the lawyer tells you he’s heading straight to court — just as soon as he finishes his whiskey.

At such times, a dark, heavy shadow can cast itself over a bar that had been bright and buzzing only hours earlier. But that’s not a bad thing — if you don’t mind a downbeat vibe with your late-night drinking. I don’t.