Bounce THIS

A moment before Uber takes off

Drinkery is busy tonight. On paper, it’s a cafe, tho based on the ratio of coffee to alcohol consumed inside being one to infinity, it’s a bar. So… drinkery in my vocab.

Drinkery has a name, too: Conspiracy, without a “the”. It’s OKish as far as the names for low-key enboozment establishments go, but still, not radiating creativity. Especially when you consider the fact of it being a watering hole for bohemian intellectuals, or writers for the rest of us.

In fact, nobody is allowed inside unless they can produce a member’s ID for the town’s Writers’ Union. The esteemed patrons cannot be disturbed by non-enlightened plebs without a single unfinished manuscript cutting into their heart-to-hearts about the pressure of query trenches or killing the vibe by hitting on their equally-distinguished female colleagues with cliche one-liners. Unacceptable frivolity.

No ID—no party, sir. Go find another boozeville.

That’s my line, by the way. Worded differently, of course.

“Do you have an ID, miss?” I say to a cheery lady, who’d just coasted up to the entrance and is ogling at me with a lame attempt at I-belong-here impression on her face, an obvious please-buy-this-please-please-please glaring brightly. Second amateur trespasser of the evening. At the tail end of my second month here, I can smell non-members before they even decide what socks to wear tonight.

“There you go.” She says, shining a driver’s license, knowing perfectly well it’s not what I requested, but hoping I’m enough of a dunce to let her bluff herself into the citadel of literary savants. Milda Somethinsen. 47. I could ask Milda what her problem is, why she is so desperate to be in the middle of the critical mass of self-absorbed individualists, but, frankly, I don’t care.

“Thanks, Milda. Are you a member?” The four-word sentence is firmly etched into my hippocampus, a muscle memory by now.

“No.” Replies Milda and walks away, confirming her amateur status, leaving me basking in the short-lived satisfaction that comes from having exerted authority onto another human being.

Quite ironically, I’m not allowed inside, either. The regulations governing the drinkery businesses are quite adamant on that. Call us when your 17yo ass is older by a few years or go buy a milkshake or whatever, kid, says the law, albeit it’s worded out slightly differently, I suspect.

That doesn’t mean I’m clueless about the atrocity exhibition beyond the threshold, nor that the pristine, pure child brain of mine is somehow magically shielded from constantly approximating the level of debauchery going on in there. Not with the gory bits and pieces of the blowout constantly spilling outside.

Tobacco aficionados, stumbling out for a puff that results in extra work for my mum, having to crook her nose at the smoke-soaked T-shirts before throwing them into the washer every night.

Those whose stomachs can’t take it anymore, rushing madly towards the nearest bush, but settling for bending over the sidewalk gutter due to time constraints, then saying a guilty sohrrrry before shuffling back inside for another round.

Rejects, having drilled enough heads with their incessant need for new acquaintanceships, looking for yet another emotional outlet, finding a good one in me, my mhms and yeahs timed to perfection.

The fresh air catchers.

The brand-new hook-up couples and their tag-alongs, maliciously ignorant of their newly-acquired status of a third wheel.

Non-pulsers, led to the Uber parked out-front, its driver already calculating the amount of bleach and rolls of paper towels this ride will cost him.

The polite and the swearboxes.

The terrible singers.

The pissed off, cancelling out the elated.

The overly aggressive, then suddenly apologetic the next moment.

Just another Wednesday night.

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