GO HAWKEYES

I hadn’t been out on a Friday night in ages. The whole day long I promised myself I would turn off the TV and force myself out to a bar – make friends with society.
Part of my problem with going out is, I don’t know what I’m looking for. A one-night stand seemed appealing, but with the amount I’ve been smoking lately, the thought of kissing someone was repulsive to me. I don’t want to be remembered as the guy with the ashtray tongue. Still, there is always the potential of meeting another chain-smoker. Most of my friends are in bed by ten, so there wasn’t anyone I could really call to meet out for a drink.
Just to increase my sex potential, I put my contact lenses in. I had one last clean pair of jeans in the closet, and my IOWA shirt was just screaming for air. I did my dishes and tidied up the apartment before I left. Just in case.
It was almost eleven-thirty when I left the apartment. I figured there would be a small line up everywhere. I had considered painting the town red and going to Glitterati’s but thought that was an environment best experienced with a group of people and a bump of designer drugs. I settled on The Pasture.
The Pasture is one of my favourite bars. It’s the least pretentious of all the bars in The Village, but can also be the scariest. I like all the different levels. It’s easier to escape people.
There were two people ahead of me to get into the bar.
“There’s a five-dollar cover,” the doorman said.
I looked in over his shoulder. The bar was pretty much empty. I could see no real reason to stay. I paid him anyway.
“And here,” the doorman said. “So ,you’re like the twentieth guy to come in, so here’s a ticket for a domestic beer and well highball.” Hurray for me. The doorman gave me the ticket and five dollar bill.
“Um, I gave you a twenty.”
The first beer went pretty much as first beers go – down too fast. I couldn’t decide to stay or go. I went to the glass cube to smoke and make up my mind. The air in the place sucked the life right of me. I lit my cigarette anyway, monitoring the beer in my glass. The person the behind me nudged me. I took a step away to give him some room.
“Are you from Iowa?” he asked.
I turned around to look at him. He towered above me. His face was tight with wrinkles. Too much time in the smoking cube.
“No, I’m from here. I bought the shirt in the States.”
“You’ll have to excuse me, I am so drunk.”
“Been there, done that.”
I chatted with him for the duration of my cigarette. He complimented me on my firm handshake as he squeezed the life out my fingers. I took my cue to leave when he draped his drunken arm around my shoulder and nearly pulled me off my feet.
“Screw this,” I thought. “I’m going to The Pilsner.”
I walked right into the bar. The crowd was almost as thin as The Pasture but decidedly more attractive. I spilled beer on myself almost as soon as I got it. It was time for a smoke.
The smoking room at The Pilsner is pretty much a concrete dungeon but has ventilation. If you’re not careful, you can gut stuck there for hours, drinking and smoking. I was going to try and avoid that.
A few drags into my smoke, I made eye contact with a guy with a nose ring. I wasn’t the slightest bit interested but I figured I would smile to be nice. He was speaking French to a guy as I passed him on the way out. He caught up with me a couple of minutes later. I had already made up my mind I wasn't going home with the guy. Who knew, he could turn out to be this really cool guy.
“So where you from?” he asked, pointing to my shirt.
“I’m from here.”
The rest of our conversation pretty much consisted of him staring into my eyes and a knowing grin. I hesitated when he offered to buy me a beer. I didn’t want to feel committed to him. I did want to hang out for another, just not with him.
“I can get it,” I said.
“No. Let me.”
The staring got tired really fast. This guy obviously just wanted to get out and fuck. He started rubbing my arms, straddling my knee, and pouting his lips for kissing.
“Gotta go,” I said, polishing off my beer.
“Where to?”
“Home?”
“Yeah. Home?”
I made a beeline for The Pasture. It was pretty much as I had left. Then I noticed Svend working the back door. At least there was someone to talk to. I bought a beer from the bartender in the Cockpit.
“Where you from?” the bartender asked.
“I’m from here.” He was really cute. Had I any brains I would have chatted him up. Instead, I went to talk to Svend.
“Nice crew cut,” he said. “Goes with the shirt.”
“Everyone keeps asking me where I’m from.”
“Anyone interesting?”
“Not anyone I would care to tell. I’m gonna go smoke.”
There was only one other person in the smoking cube; you could actually see two inches ahead of you. I lit my cigarette and found myself face to face with four young queens. There was nothing else to look at; I had to look back. I tried not snarl. The cube filled with smoke quickly forcing me to race through my cigarette. On my way past them, one of the queens asked, “Where are you from?”
“I’m from here,” not stopping to elaborate.
Coming down the stairs I saw a couple that come into The Shop for breakfast. I’ve known them for over a year, and they still call me “The New Guy.” I can think of worse things. I hung out with them for a bit, shooting the shit, talking at the top of my lungs.
When next I saw Svend, he introduced me to one of the queens that had been standing in front of the smoking room.
“Where are you from?” Svend asked.
“Ha, ha.”
“We just asked him that,” the queen said. “He said he was from here and kept walking. We thought it was rude.”
I rolled my eyes.
“He was just telling me how everyone has been asking him that,” Svend explained. “And that he’s hasn’t been interested in anyone who’s asked.”
The queen looked at Svend and then me.
“And on that note, I’ll be leaving,” I said, emptying my pint glass and going out the back door.


GarpinBC