2 - Ode to a Dive Bar or Blessed be Neil Diamond

I thought I had too much before we arrived, but looking around at the glistening faces, drunk off of joy and laughter and tequila, I feel a little behind. My hand reaches out to the bartender and presents 10 dollars in exchange for a lukewarm beer and some crinkly singles. I watch the founding father slip into a cash register, and he winks at me as if to say, "Go have fun; you deserve it." And I do. I’m 21 but feel ten years older. Except, tonight, I'm standing in a small bar called Fat Froggs and the dark, hazy setting eases me to feel my age and the carelessness that comes with it. Maybe I'll glance at a stranger, maybe I’ll take one too many shots, or maybe I’ll go home early. Only God knows, and only time will tell. Meanwhile, the bartender gives me an uneasy smile, a face that reflects Southern charm or serial killer, depending on who you ask. Bless his heart anyway.

My head turns around to face the crowd, the rest of my body follows, and my elbows relax on the wooden countertop. They stick to a mysterious liquid, the remnants of the night before or the night before that - the good times that did not want to end. I don't ask them to. I bring the beverage to meet my lips. The rim of my drink stays plastered to my mouth until its contents disappear. Let the good times roll.

I squint and search the haze of unfamiliar faces for my people, the few who took me in when I needed them most. Three years ago, I was dumped into a pool of privilege called Elon University, a party of peers who did not care what my name was but rather what my dad did for work. I found refuge among the creatives, the men and women of North Carolina who searched for meaning through music and melody, language and love. I searched for them upon my arrival on campus and found them at last, and now it seemed I was searching for them again within this endless crowd of strangers all crammed into a dirt-crusted bar. My arms held them in line outside, my legs walked with them to a table, my mind broke away for a drink, and I now found myself lost again. Where did they go? My rapidly shifting eyes and efforts are interrupted by the brutal and irrevocable fact that I have to pee.

In the bathroom, the stalls are overcrowded with women, and the air is perfumed with Daisy and Chanel, and I think this is the female experience. These are the small moments I find myself sitting in for a little too long. I close my eyes while I pee and take in the chatter, the wonderful melody of gossip, and gasps. When I exit the stall, I'm bombarded by blondes who happen to love my blouse. Thank you, I say, taking in their natural beauty. They have the kind of faces and hair and smiles that come once in a lifetime, faces that you see on billboards and lingerie ads, yet here they are, three rare beauties looking back at me. And now I feel bad about myself.

I mention that I wore this top to turn a man's head, to let him know that I come with a good pair of breasts and a bright personality. The women agree and howl “okayy” to the moon, and I join in. I let one borrow my lipgloss, and she looks better in it than I do, and I'm not okay with that. But I’ll learn to be. Eventually.

I return to the bar but my amiable friend has fled his position. A more handsome, younger man has taken his place. I catch his gaze and signal with my crumpled singles that I need more liquor, a little more distraction from the fact that I will never be a natural blonde with a pretty face that makes men smile and think about the possibility of starting a family. Maybe this bartender will look at me and think of the day when he'll lift a veil from my face and look into the eyes of his soon-to-be wife. But he doesn't. He sees me but ignores my desire. It stings but not in the good way house tequila does as it slides down my open throat. Instead, I feel the brutal burn.

But then, something shifts inside. I breathe in the flame. I stop and smell the roses, even though I feel the pain of their thorns. Instead of knocking me down to a place where my knees hit the earth and my denim soaks up the wet ground, his silence fuels my fire. Like a flame does when it meets gasoline, I ignite. Now, I’m full of fuel and flame. I remember that delusion can make life beautiful and beautifully bearable.

I stop and appreciate the sweaty man who hasn’t stopped dancing since 5 pm. I appreciate my freezing hands and their ability to keep my drink cool. I appreciate the click and rattle of the bottle opener and metal cap when it’s popped off. I appreciate it all a little too much, and when I think I’ve gone too far, I go a bit further. I pick my pretty pair of rose-colored glasses to peer into, take a step, and then another. I smile, nod, then walk away.

The pool tables are more inviting anyway. When I glance in their direction, my body relaxes - I’ve found my people again. I press a few coins into the slot and re-rack the mess of colors on the table. I force the butt of the cue forward, and the sharp crack of my neat triangle breaking feels good. I watch the group next to me, who are further into their game but look far less serious. One of the players is being coached by a shaggy brunette. He guides her hands from behind her, and she smiles.

The band starts to play a cover of "Sweet Caroline," and my focus shifts from the game, although I'm about to win. I envy the band's ability to stand before the crowd and showcase their skill. The lead singer is cute, and suddenly, I'm pulling my blouse down, trying to hide my stomach and push up my chest in the off chance he looks my way. And he does, for a second, and the world stops. This is how my life could turn out.

"Your mother and I met when I was singing "Sweet Caroline," and I saw her in the

 crowd, swaying her hips and smiling. She couldn't hide from me even if she tried. And

so, Caroline, that's how your mother and I met."

I try to meet his gaze again but am faced with the fact that he isn't looking at me but a group of women to my left. After the show, one of them hands him her number, and my heart shatters.

I return to my refuge among the racket, the happy faces who remind me I don't need a man to make me happy and that I will find another rockstar boyfriend back home in New York who appreciates my crooked smile and the way I cannot hold eye contact when I'm nervous. So I stand there and let Neil Diamond's words sink into my skin.

But now I look at the night and it don't seem so lonely.

Blessed be the locals who sing their hearts out on a Thursday, christening the room with an off-key version of Adele's “Hello.” Blessed be the bartender with the heavy pour. Blessed be my inability to tell the difference between Patrón and a shitty bottle of tequila. Blessed be the women in the bathroom who let you borrow their lip gloss and tell you that your ex is a "fucking loser." Blessed be the sober staff who put up with all of this shit. Blessed be the pool tables who take coins in exchange for good times, who allow curious men to lean on them, showing you how to pocket the ball with one clean swoop. Blessed be my father, who showed me how to hold a pool cue. Blessed be my mother, who taught me to hold myself with pride. Blessed be the place where you can forget about the world and replace problems with chalk, sticky tables, and people who don’t know what they’re doing and don’t mind. Blessed be all the little things that don’t matter and how they reveal what does. Blessed be the boy with the wild curls who let me feel the music, not the absence of a person who wasn't there beside me.