"I Always Get Lost When I Leave The Village"
by Andrew Sarrion
by Andrew Sarrion
First and foremost vomit is disgusting. It's a combination of the smell of it, and the contents of it. It’s all of the corn and the other not so exotic foods that everyone seems to eat right before they vomit. On a lucky day a nice breeze can blow the smell away but you still will know it's there, and no matter what it will get inside your skin. This night didn't have any nice wind to blow the vomit away. Which I believe is a perfect explanation of my luck. This night had torrential rain, and no wind, plus vomit.
Waiting in line is the worst possible experience in these conditions. The only thing that can be considered "good" is what you're waiting for and that's only if you're waiting for something you actually care about. My philosophy on it is if you don't care, then why are you even there? I hate those people who wait in line and ask "Why are we here?” These usually turn out to be the people in front of me. They ramble on about how they don't want to be there. They should be thrown into the vomit. They reminded me of reviewers. About reviewers: I know it’s a job but must they seem like they hate everything? It sickens me just imagining them in their trendy Ben Sherman sweater vests and unwashed hair as they write their snooty little articles about that new it band they saw at that trendy little dive bar in the lower east side that they always seem to have known about first. It turned out that the whiny people in front of me are in fact reviewers. I guess the joke's on me. I heard them saying "Look at this place, it’s filthy! What kind of band plays at a club with vomit all over the curb and stray dogs running around everywhere?" I didn't notice the dog standing in the alleyway. It had matted grey and white fur almost as if birds had used it as a personal toilet. The dog had the look of a sailor to it; especially since it was missing a leg. It looked as if it had seen harsher times than any of these whiny reviewers. It was almost laughing at them as it wagged its tail, telling them to shut up and learn how to appreciate things for a change. I would've taken it home if I wasn't allergic to animal dander. It crawled under a box to escape the rain. I wish I could've done the same. I felt hypothermia kicking in as the rain beat down on my slightly hooded head. It was nearing eight and the club doors finally opened. Everyone on the line piled in. Some people running the risk of being trampled when they slipped on ankle deep puddles because they happened to be careless and push the people in front of them. It was complete madness. It was an excess of bodies to get in this one little door, all to see one little band.
The conditions inside were just as bad as the one's outside. Well at least from what I saw at the door. The scene in the club was a perfect recreation of the scene outside. The walls had cheap plaster covering the holes in the wall which were probably the result of many bar fights, and there was a disheveled piano in the back with some of its keys missing so that there were empty spaces were C and G should've been. The strings on this piano were visible, and they looked loose and worn as if some drunk mistook them for guitar strings. It's a bit of a waste that we have to go through horrible conditions outside to get in. Only to face the same conditions when we are inside. On top of that we have to adhere to certain conditions to have fun. Which are:
1) Don't get so belligerent that you start to pick fights with men twice your size.
2) Make sure you blend in with the older crowd.
3) Try not to look too underage.
That last one never happens. You're always looking over your shoulder expecting a bouncer to be there, and kick you out. Then the night would be considered a waste, and as you walk home you'd be calling yourself an idiot for ever entertaining the thought of having a good time. It's quite a zero sum game. You get inside, and then you're worried.
Well I got in. The conversation that I had with the bouncer was so caveman-esque it was comical.
"I.D?"
"Here" It was fake of course.
"This you?"
"Yeah"
"You sure?"
"I think I know who I am"
"Huh...whatever go in"
I just left him there sniffing up vomit.
Right after "crossing the threshold" I went straight for the bar. The bartender was this beautiful Filipino woman whose unappreciative smile and lack of confidence showed that she had just recently gotten her job. You could see her work getting to her as she mixed five dollar drinks at the drooling barflies who only bought drinks so they can have an excuse to stare at her breasts. I could already see the stress lines furrowing her brow. I would've felt sorry for her if I wasn't doing the same thing. She really was something. I think she saw me noticing because she threw this look at me that resembled something a prosecutor would throw. I looked away. She scared the hell out of me.
I took a seat by the edge of the bar so I could "scope the place". I asked the woman for a scotch and soda. To think she had the nerve to ask me.
"How old are you kid?"
"Old enough to get inside," I replied.
"That's not exactly old enough to get you a drink," she said.
I hated her for that. I was a little turned on, as well, but hell if I'd let her know that. I just shut up since I didn't look a day over fifteen. I didn't dare ask her again for a drink. I wasn't very thirsty to begin with. I just wanted to dull the noise of the surroundings with liquor. I looked around hoping to feel better. Didn't work. The club was filled with the scratches, and curses that always accompany a sound check. There were bunches of people by the stage, trying to get a glimpse of the band. I already had my glimpse of them. My friend's,cousin's, girlfriend's, boss, walked the drummer's mom's dog once. No joke. They were cool, but not my type of people.
I started pacing around. Mostly so I wouldn't feel so strange. Wasn't I waiting for this for months? I must have paced the place for an hour. The band started playing a half hour into it, but I still felt like pacing. The minute I would stop the person next to me would make snide comments about my hair, or clothes. It was a sad thing to see. They were all just standing there looking indifferent. They all had the look of reviewers on their faces. Their eyes scrunched up in scrutiny, and their noses wrinkled as if the smell of the vomit outside was coming in.
I left right after the show. No way were they going to ruin a good band for me. The rain had subsided enough for me to not worry about hypothermia. I noticed the vomit being pawed at by the stray dog with the missing leg. At least someone had found a use for it. I left pretending to myself that I had a good time. I decided to bring a friend next time. That was about the same time I decided to make friends.
Waiting in line is the worst possible experience in these conditions. The only thing that can be considered "good" is what you're waiting for and that's only if you're waiting for something you actually care about. My philosophy on it is if you don't care, then why are you even there? I hate those people who wait in line and ask "Why are we here?” These usually turn out to be the people in front of me. They ramble on about how they don't want to be there. They should be thrown into the vomit. They reminded me of reviewers. About reviewers: I know it’s a job but must they seem like they hate everything? It sickens me just imagining them in their trendy Ben Sherman sweater vests and unwashed hair as they write their snooty little articles about that new it band they saw at that trendy little dive bar in the lower east side that they always seem to have known about first. It turned out that the whiny people in front of me are in fact reviewers. I guess the joke's on me. I heard them saying "Look at this place, it’s filthy! What kind of band plays at a club with vomit all over the curb and stray dogs running around everywhere?" I didn't notice the dog standing in the alleyway. It had matted grey and white fur almost as if birds had used it as a personal toilet. The dog had the look of a sailor to it; especially since it was missing a leg. It looked as if it had seen harsher times than any of these whiny reviewers. It was almost laughing at them as it wagged its tail, telling them to shut up and learn how to appreciate things for a change. I would've taken it home if I wasn't allergic to animal dander. It crawled under a box to escape the rain. I wish I could've done the same. I felt hypothermia kicking in as the rain beat down on my slightly hooded head. It was nearing eight and the club doors finally opened. Everyone on the line piled in. Some people running the risk of being trampled when they slipped on ankle deep puddles because they happened to be careless and push the people in front of them. It was complete madness. It was an excess of bodies to get in this one little door, all to see one little band.
The conditions inside were just as bad as the one's outside. Well at least from what I saw at the door. The scene in the club was a perfect recreation of the scene outside. The walls had cheap plaster covering the holes in the wall which were probably the result of many bar fights, and there was a disheveled piano in the back with some of its keys missing so that there were empty spaces were C and G should've been. The strings on this piano were visible, and they looked loose and worn as if some drunk mistook them for guitar strings. It's a bit of a waste that we have to go through horrible conditions outside to get in. Only to face the same conditions when we are inside. On top of that we have to adhere to certain conditions to have fun. Which are:
1) Don't get so belligerent that you start to pick fights with men twice your size.
2) Make sure you blend in with the older crowd.
3) Try not to look too underage.
That last one never happens. You're always looking over your shoulder expecting a bouncer to be there, and kick you out. Then the night would be considered a waste, and as you walk home you'd be calling yourself an idiot for ever entertaining the thought of having a good time. It's quite a zero sum game. You get inside, and then you're worried.
Well I got in. The conversation that I had with the bouncer was so caveman-esque it was comical.
"I.D?"
"Here" It was fake of course.
"This you?"
"Yeah"
"You sure?"
"I think I know who I am"
"Huh...whatever go in"
I just left him there sniffing up vomit.
Right after "crossing the threshold" I went straight for the bar. The bartender was this beautiful Filipino woman whose unappreciative smile and lack of confidence showed that she had just recently gotten her job. You could see her work getting to her as she mixed five dollar drinks at the drooling barflies who only bought drinks so they can have an excuse to stare at her breasts. I could already see the stress lines furrowing her brow. I would've felt sorry for her if I wasn't doing the same thing. She really was something. I think she saw me noticing because she threw this look at me that resembled something a prosecutor would throw. I looked away. She scared the hell out of me.
I took a seat by the edge of the bar so I could "scope the place". I asked the woman for a scotch and soda. To think she had the nerve to ask me.
"How old are you kid?"
"Old enough to get inside," I replied.
"That's not exactly old enough to get you a drink," she said.
I hated her for that. I was a little turned on, as well, but hell if I'd let her know that. I just shut up since I didn't look a day over fifteen. I didn't dare ask her again for a drink. I wasn't very thirsty to begin with. I just wanted to dull the noise of the surroundings with liquor. I looked around hoping to feel better. Didn't work. The club was filled with the scratches, and curses that always accompany a sound check. There were bunches of people by the stage, trying to get a glimpse of the band. I already had my glimpse of them. My friend's,cousin's, girlfriend's, boss, walked the drummer's mom's dog once. No joke. They were cool, but not my type of people.
I started pacing around. Mostly so I wouldn't feel so strange. Wasn't I waiting for this for months? I must have paced the place for an hour. The band started playing a half hour into it, but I still felt like pacing. The minute I would stop the person next to me would make snide comments about my hair, or clothes. It was a sad thing to see. They were all just standing there looking indifferent. They all had the look of reviewers on their faces. Their eyes scrunched up in scrutiny, and their noses wrinkled as if the smell of the vomit outside was coming in.
I left right after the show. No way were they going to ruin a good band for me. The rain had subsided enough for me to not worry about hypothermia. I noticed the vomit being pawed at by the stray dog with the missing leg. At least someone had found a use for it. I left pretending to myself that I had a good time. I decided to bring a friend next time. That was about the same time I decided to make friends.
