Recently, my sister and I remembered our party-goers when we were younger – when we stayed outside until 5 am and we hid in my car at the corner, waiting for our mother to leave for work so we did not go in while she was having breakfast in her nightgown. Inevitably, our conversation turned to drunken nights in a Bellmore bar that we used to frequent called The Tavern Band Band
Now, The Band Box was a special place for my sister and me … we were Sunday afternoon. accustomed since we were toddlers (literally, not figuratively). My father, like so many others, was playing softball on Sunday mornings, and the experience was not complete without a trip to the after – beer bar for men, Shirley Temples with additional cherries for the children. I know that times have changed drastically and that today, taking a child to a bar will cause a visit from Child Protection Services, but in the 1970s and early 1980s It was commonplace and we were not the only kids running like ragamuffins. One Sunday, when I was about 9 years old and my dad did not feel any pain, he gave me a few dollars to put it in the Jukebox (the kind that spun 45 "). – I am old!). I was and I'm still a big fan of Blondie, and my favorite song at the time was Rapture (you know, Fab Five Freddie and the Mars man, eating cars, bars, and guitars …) Well, anyway, I was old enough to love music and old enough to put money in the machine and find the songs I wanted to play, but I did not have not enough experience to realize that once I hit the code to play Rapture, there would be a considerable delay before the song is actually played. When the music did not start immediately, I thought that I had done something wrong, so I hit the number again. He was still not playing, so now I thought the jukebox was broken and pushed the number for Rapture a third time, … and a fourth. By the time Rapture played for the seventh time in a row, I was getting dirty looks from the whole bar (remember that it was before the remote, and you could not "skip" the songs), and the bartender finally unplugged the jukebox.
It was a homecoming when we returned to The Band Box as customers ourselves, and we quickly reinstated our regulars status. During one of those fuzzy nights, another regular, whose name escapes me completely, so I'll call him Bear, invited me to accompany him the next day to Atlantic City. Bear resembled an aged and overweight PI Magnum, with a semi-unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt, highlighting a thick gold chain and skeins of coarse hairs. I guess it was between the mid-thirties and late thirties, with thick curly hairs and salt and pepper, and a mustache from Hell's Angels. I found it physically repulsive, so, of course, I agreed to go there (insert here the emoticon shooting, myself in the eyes).
He picked me up the next morning at 7 am, and in my puffy eyes I wanted nothing more than to cancel the trip and stay in bed. But, he was outside, honking and he had already paid for my bus ticket the night before. I had told Bear that I would go with him to AC, but I also told him that I was broke … in fact, I think I had less than $ 10. in my wallet. Bear had agreed to pay, so I felt compelled to get up and leave. I did not take a shower, or even change my clothes the night before, so I can only imagine what I looked like when I came across his car. We went to The Band Box, where we were taking the bus we were taking.
When I got on the bus, it was as if I had walked on the set of the movie, Cocoon. If you do not remember, it was the movie with all the old people swimming in the pool with extraterrestrial eggs and regain their youth by undermining the life force of extraterrestrial embryos. In other words, I could have been the great-granddaughter of 75% of the group we were traveling with. Bear seemed to know everyone on the bus; I guess of his affiliation with the local K of C, rotary club, or VFW. I tried to escape myself at that time, and I called my sister to pick me up, but she just laughed and told me to sleep in bed in mess that I had done.
I followed his advice. I dozed off during the 4 and a half hours of travel to Jersey, and even when I was not sleeping, I pretended. Like a fly on the wall, I heard the conversations of those around me as they complimented Bear on her pretty girlfriend and asked her how long we had been going out together. His boastful response to how it was our first date almost blew my ears and my stomach convulsed. I moaned silently in my head and imagined a plan to sabotage any idea that Bear was planning to kiss me in the next 8 hours.
It turned out to be a bored, whiny and smelly girl I had to do something about.
I was standing next to Bear while he was playing Black Jack, yawning in an uncomfortable way and making sure no part of my body touched any part of his body. I could smell the old car/">cigarette smoke in the hair of the previous night and the sour smell of alcohol infiltrating my skin, and I thanked and congratulated my disgust … J & # 39; I hoped it would serve a vampire's purpose. Bear gave me $ 20 so I could eat while we were there, and went to a restaurant in the casino. He ordered the steak, the baked potato, the salad … the work. I had already spent part of my $ 20 on drinks, because, since I was not playing, I was not allowed to drink for free at the casino. So, I did not have enough money to buy a decent meal and I just had a sandwich and fries. I complained about my food aloud (and sincerely, actually – it was terrible), while I was looking with envy as Bear ate his cocktail of shrimp. I was tired, hungry, in the company of whom I did not want to be, and I did not hesitate to let Bear know how miserable I was. By the time we got back to the bus to leave, not only did he not speak to me, but he did not even want to sit next to me while driving.
Moral of History: The easiest way to get out of a bad date is to be worse.
If you liked the article then don’t forget to share it with your friends. Share your opinion in comments below.