Going to the bar

If it had been up to him they would have gone to a sports bar four blocks away from his apartment. If it had been up to him this six dollar beer would have been four and this new wave post punk band would have been a juke box, but it was never up to him when his friends are involved. They were the kind of people that went places for the ‘mood’ and ‘atmosphere’ and ‘culture’. They liked dark cherry wood tables and dim blue lighting. They wanted active chatter to listen in on and the sound of live music equipment in a feedback loop. They wanted to feel like a part of something. Johnny just wanted to get drunk.

He wanted to feel the heat in his cheeks, the upward motion of his stomach’s butterflies, the unbalanced weight of his limbs, and the complete halt of his mental faculties in a sea of blissful pulses. This was why he liked sports bars close to home. He wanted to know he could black out walk home and that no one there knew him.

The lists of social obligations of going to a place like this were countless. The personal intricacies of every person there was as bad as going to a family reunion. No, he may not know the cute tomboy, but he sure as shit knows her boyfriend’s brother that plays bass with his friend Phil’s industrial nu metal revival band. For a city with a few million people, it really seemed like a small town. The same groups of people were drawn to these run down yet overpriced places, like some bullshit moth to the flame joke, but far less funny because now he had to pace himself.

Now he had to keep an eye on how many drinks others have drank and whether people have eaten anything and whether he should get the first round so that they could spot him the next one or if there were too many people already there to do it. Constantly keeping an eye on the cans and glasses of every person so some asshole doesn’t roofie anyone like last year. He would have to make sure the girls were sitting at proper angles next to proper people so creeps wouldn’t come bug them. He had to make sure people who had different thoughts on what it meant to be punk rock were adequately distracted by other people so he wouldn’t have to hear that argument for the sixth time this year.

Then there was the whole smoking thing. Do the friends of friends smoke? Did anyone bring anyone new that would think they’re a bunch of degenerates for going outside? Would those people be too on the spectrum to realize everyone moved outside and isn’t coming back to the table inside so there’s no reason to keep guarding it?

He couldn’t even remember what he had done the last time he was here, which wasn’t always a good sign. Sometimes it would be he just drank too much and his bros would crash on his couch. Sometimes he was lucky enough to bring a woman home. Other times he’d start a mosh pit during an acoustic set and pour beer on the lead guitarist of the headlining band and be asked very kindly to leave.

It was a Friday night and the air was crisp when he pulled up to the venue. Tt was around seven, meaning the bands should have started but never actually did.  Some people should already be there, and the mask of pleasantry had to go on. There was no parking in the immediate vicinity. Four blocks over there was a spot he had to parallel park in between two giant ass trucks, most likely there for the cowboy bar across the street. The walk to the venue was a perfect one smoke walk, but he forgot his phone in the car and had to walk back halfway. He tossed the butt in the street and came up to the flimsy wooden door. ‘alright,’ he muttered to himself, ‘it’s show time.’