onions

If I were to create a hell for myself, it would be somewhat similar to this. I’m sometimes in the mood for places like this, but not tonight. I have too much on my mind and too many other things I’d rather be doing. The crowd isn’t bad, at least not compared to the last few times I’ve been here. This doesn’t mean they’re not bumping and rubbing against me as we make our way to the side bar.

He’s standing near the wall, off to the corner, with the top two buttons open to reveal his plush chest hair. He sips on his drink, but his eyes dart to all corners. As a group of drink-saturated women walk by, his eyes scan them individually from toes to shoulders. He follows them, staring at the ass of the last one, until they reach the line for the bathroom. He turns his head and drops his head to the short skirt of another woman standing with her boyfriend. It’s obvious no one around him came with him or is even talking to him.

She’s heavy-set, probably about two hundred pounds packed on to a one hundred twenty pound frame. She’s surrounded at her table by a half dozen other ladies, all more attractive and a couple genuinely beautiful. She laughs louder, talks—or, because of the proximity to the dance floor, yells—more, and all of her gestures are exaggerated. She looks over to her left where a man, about six foot and handsome, is watching the dance floor every couple minutes. Quick glances that only her friends would see, but obvious enough that she’s got her sights set on the unattainable.

The man she’s gawking at takes no notice of her. He doesn’t pay attention to even the mildly attractive. He instead watches intently the most beautiful girls dancing. He bobs his head with the music and drinks occasionally, never taking his eyes off dancers. His face contorts to a wince when an ugly woman walks by.

The three of them are against the bar, forming a small semi-circle. The one in the middle sits on a stool drinking a Miller Lite, the one on his left drinking a clear drink, and the one to his right drinking a light brown one. They point women and men out to one another and, though I can’t hear them, make hilarious comments. When a particularly hot group of women walk by their corner of the bar—suspiciously close to the women’s restroom—they stare in awe.

We move over to a table. I can’t hear any of the conversation around me without straining. My attention wanders to a group of girls at the table just next to ours. It’s a pretty large group. They were dancing in their chairs and drinking fairly quickly, as if lubing their inhibitions to the point of moving their act to where so many others were gyrating.

Across from them is a guy long, curly, dark hair pulled back in a ponytail. He’s with a group of about seven people, but he keeps himself out of the conversations. His eyes, instead, are surveying the rest of the bar incessantly. He contorts himself slightly. He puts one leg up on the chair and leans forward, he reaches back and leans on the railing to the ramp beside him, and he crosses his arms in front of his chest leaning back. It’s like a peacock spreading broken, brown, and diseased feathers.

I looked over from Ponytail and watched the girl at the beer trough strut. Her hair is fried and dyed and sticking out from her head in all directions. She is big busted, but wore a shirt too small to display more cleavage than at all necessary. She pulled up her shirt and wore low-rise jeans to show off her obsessively maintained midriff. She leaned too far forward when there were men around looking for beers. When the line wained she swayed and thrust her hips with the music. If a guy caught her eye she increased her efforts.

The desperation and pretension is palpable. Drowning their self-doubt and numbing their nerves with drink while propping themselves up. I try to keep my attention our table, but I can’t ignore the pathetic mating dance. Too many people deluding themselves.

We moved down to the dance floor. I stood next to an entrance. The man next to me is gawking at those around him. A homely girl presses up against one of our group and is politely denied. Sweat saturates the air. Gawker turns to me and says, “What are we waiting for anyway. It’s all a bunch of easy bitches anyway.” He walks quickly past me and away from the dancing. I need to get out of here. I’m exhausted.