Norm's

Tired, bored, and disheartened, I sit in the back of my parents 1994 maroon Chevy Blazer, the air is thick, and it's difficult to breathe. My father refuses to put on the AC, because gas prices have recently skyrocketed and he feels it's a luxury that only steals his hard earned cash. I stick my head out the window to feel the warm breeze passing through my dirty blonde curls, bring momentary relief from stifling heat.

 

Its 4PM and I know where we're heading.

 

It's a daily ritual that I've been partaking in for a majority of my adolescents, I lie to myself saying "it will only be a quick stop", but I know better and this only comforts my apprehension for a moment. I want to go home. We arrive in to the familiar parking lot littered with cigarette butts, broken glass, and random debris and I hop out of the SUV, carefully watch each step, navigating the safest path to the entryway of the run-down building that stands before me.  

 

The doors swing open as the songs of Billy Joel, The Stones, and Eric Clapton consume the air, which is  permeating with stale tobacco smoke. The stench slowly ingrains itself into our clothes, making itself right at home, this is now our fragrance for the next few days. 

 

I immediately dart for the corner of the room and struggle to pull a high top chair from under the bar, creating just enough separation to embark on my climb to the peak.

 

This is my Everest.

 

When I reach the summit, without a word, I'm rewarded with a tall glass of ice cold Coca Cola and a small wooden bowl brimming with pretzels saturated in salt.

 

Quietly swigging my crisp soda and inhaling my alkaline treats, I'm hardly noticed.

 

My ears begin soaking in the conversations of bickering housewives, sneering businessman, and miserable carpenters, as they  debate the politics, criticize their bosses, glorify their children, and denounce the times. They down pint after pint, every social class of America, partaking in a lubricated group therapy session, searching for answers at the bottom of each draught.

 

The bartender plays the healer, prescribing drink after drink , listening to their problems, offering comic relief, attending to their emotional needs, receiving silver dollars and loose cigarettes for the time they bend his ear.

 

The music, a nostalgic reminder of when the world wasn't so big and they were kings of the terrain. They were free...

 

free of responsibility...

 

free of constraints...

 

free of doubt.....

 

and free of worry. 

The future was a virgin landscape, a vast pasture, untouched, yearning to be cultivated.

 

At this juncture, the number of placeholders in their bank accounts have been forgotten, for they are rich...

 

They are rich in friends...

 

They are rich in drink....

 

and they are rich in melody.

 

Rubbing elbows, exchanging smiles, indulging in half truths of athletic triumphs, victorious boyhood battles and sexual conquests, as history is repeated, then repeated again and again. The narratives never change, with duplicated names, always ending with the roar of laughter, I mean my God, isn't it the reason why they came?

 

Isolated from the outside, it becomes apparent the world has left them behind, but I can't help but smile, their resistance is admirable, these dingy walls somehow nourish the courage to face tomorrow.