I was immediately repulsed by the smell of cheap perfume, chicken wings, and desperation pushing towards me.
The bar exuded schizophrenic chaos. Part pub, catering hall, concert venue, and brothel. The female patrons looked defeated and warn down. There was no joy in this establishment, just grim acceptance.
I scanned the room to assess the other characters haunting this place. Hipsters, slackers, sportsters, families, and the chronically hopeless congregated here. This truly was thee Walmart of bars – accommodating all demographics, but none of them well and certainly without character.
The masses sat there gazing blankly into the abyss. Mixed in with the hopeless, there were individuals that were overjoyed to be in such a location. As we pushed our way towards the back, we found the group we were looking for.
A bearded slacker approached me and offered a fist-bump. I was taken aback my this outdated greeting. My fist extended in sympathy and then I promptly applied sanitizer to the back of my hand.
Our tables were located in the back, directly next to the bathrooms. I assume we were not deemed attractive enough to be near entrances or windows. As I scanned my surroundings I noticed a make-shift stage being assembled. I felt the sudden urge to flee.
The fist-bumper took a seat behind me. I decided it was preferable than making eye contact, but I could feel his beady eyes burrowing holes in my head. The pressure was getting intense when the waitress arrived and asked our group if we need a drink.
God Yes.
The alcohol took an unacceptable amount of time to arrive and our waitress looked different yet the same. Then I noticed her on the other side of the bar while she was still at my table, and there she was again at the table next to us.
Did this woman have the ability to clone herself or did someone slip something in my drink? Walmart mass production at its finest, I didn’t know they were in the business of making people, but it was inevitable. I decided to call her Tripli-kate.
Someone was setting up a drum kit and I turned to find the fist-bumper staring at me. Where did I put my mace? The drummer had a greasy look that was all-too-common for Southern New Jersey cover bands. The rest of the group remained hidden from my view but I could hear them plucking away…preparing for an evening of audio torture via Bon Jovi covers.
At the first struck note, a herd of wild-haired, fake-breasted, buffalo woman stampeded towards the stage. Their bovine glares focused at the half-empty stage of has-beens preparing to play their brand of bleached, white-bread South Jersey soul music. Men soon followed the women, quietly coming close to their ample posteriors in order to make contact with their Wrangler sheathed crotches.
It was entirely plausible that the rapture of bad food, bad music, and unfulfilled dreams could instigate a flash-orgy. We needed to leave. Immediately.
The crowd converged. Through a fetid human cavity made of small gaps between legs and armpits, I found freedom. Once outside, we barricaded ourselves in the car. Hearing the music reach a crescendo, the odor of the masses reached its peak, infecting my nostrils and lungs even outdoors.
I scrubbed myself raw when I got home to ensure I was not contaminated by any form of contact. I wrapped a blanked over myself and watched TV for several days until the thought of that horrible place left my mind and I was able to venture out into the world again.