For the past few weeks I’ve been taking a class, which is a good way to give your life structure when you need endless validation. Tuesday was our last class so a few of us went out for a drink. Since night is when the baby sleeps and I turn into a vestige of my former self until dawn, I joined. The destination: Zebulon. Zebulon is a bar but mostly is a place where young hot people can find other young hot people to kiss and sometimes more than kiss. Let’s just say the top demographic ain’t new mothers.
I was the first of my party to arrive. I parked my car in front of the bar, which is located directly under a freeway. As I dug through my tote bags to present my ID to the bartender, I was faced with the stark realization that the days of enjoying bars like this may be entirely behind me.
Inside was a dark, damp, whiskey-soaked cave. The familiar grime of nights out overtook the spit-up smell of my jumpsuit. Couples on dates, single men nervously hovering, buzzy groups just starting an epic night out…I’ve never done cocaine but even I could sense it was lurking close by.
I waited at the bar with a man whose date had gone to the bathroom. He cut in front of me and then graciously ceded his stolen spot back to me. I ordered a club soda. He asked me if I was there to see the “show.” In my world, “show” means improv or musical, but with age I’ve realized that to a certain demographic it means rock and roll style music. I told him I was not there to see the “show.” I asked where they do the “shows” and he told me there was a big room in the back behind where we were standing. I said, “Oh, interesting.” We parted ways, never to see each other again.
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I scanned the bar for a table. The smell of cigarettes drew my attention to a side door, where a sliver of a smoking patio was visible. I followed it and found that the sliver of patio was, in fact, an enormous parking lot that had been transformed to an outdoor bar. It was like walking through a portal to Narnia, if Narnia was filled with beautiful, garishly dressed people on drugs.
The women were crop-topped and bangled and sparkly. The men were dressed like creepy neighbors from the 1970s: bushy mustaches and enormous oversized glasses and pants belted high at the waist.
I grabbed a table and chairs, which had been repurposed from elementary school desks. My knees folded into my lap. Eventually the rest of my party arrived and we were now another group in a sea of groups.
When I got home, my jumpsuit smelled like spit-up and cigarettes. I didn’t have time to take a shower. The baby woke up at 4:30 AM.
Oh, God, no--the dreaded bushy mustache 🫣 PTSD trigger.