Yeah, even when I’m playing, I’m still working in these bars. I hate them. I hate the smell and I hate the noise. I hate watching the guy with the drink hovering over me – it’s rude to back away because you’re implying he can’t hold his liquor (literally) and it’s all a joke when they finally go ahead and spill beer all over your coat. I leave stinking of it… not the guy’s fault. I moved my jacket and as I do it a curvaceous woman wriggles her way up to him and jostles his arm and I get the beer all over my skin. She’s spilled HIS beer yet offers to buy ME the drink.
I don’t understand the etiquette.
Perhaps a lot of people need this lowering of inhibitions. Perhaps their grins won’t come as easily. It just makes me feel stupid and slow, dizzy if I have too much, wary of my footing. Tonight there’s not enough of anything to harm me in that way, though Holly must be getting the bartender to mix every type of chocolate or sweet or cream that she thinks I might like, but the noise and the smell gets to me and I stalk off in the hopes of not seeming too ill-humoured, knowing that if I stay longer my mood will shift and I’ll be caught out angry and depressed. Never flattering.
Out into the darkness of western Pennsylvania. 45 minutes south of Pittsburgh and it should be a song. It’s 22 degrees but my body is heated enough that I’m not going to notice for quite sometime. Flannel shirt and steaming skin and a mile to walk before I turn in… the tiniest spit of snow is telling me that the world’s alright. It IS a beautiful night, moist and cold. Silent enough that you can hear the river as the noise of the bar fades out.
The lights fade and the sounds fade, and the time in the open air means that even the smell might fade – there are such incredible creatures in those places. They are spirited and smiling and some are come-hither and some are fine just to be admired, but if I’m not willing to play the game then I’m just another passing face, and in this case at least, I’m very, very glad to be leaving.
The travel “home” is usually when I’ll start getting depressed, but the company of the snow keeps my spirits up. Siwtchblade courage, fingers wrapped tightly. Baltimore instincts die hard. My chains are wrapped and silent. Crossing water the only way I know how – the bridge between Coal Center and California is steel and half-seen, but the water beneath sends shivers up my spine and I cross quickly, shaking.
It’s quiet out, and I’m thinking about how, for such a small town, it’s odd that it’s almost never peaceful at night. Heh – then it occurs to me that the bars simply haven’t closed yet. Antje will keep me company tonight, but that’s about all I can expect.
