Perhaps you work in one of the factorys in the Shawnee Industrial Park and the shift has ended. Tired and dirty, you head for home. Maybe you're out on the town, bored of the same old so-and-so, looking for something different and new. Or it could be that you're just passing through on your way to Meeker or some other suburban metropolis. Chances are, at some point in your journey, you will be overcome with the hankering for a cold brew and an inexplicable urge to sit in a room full of smoke for an hour or two.
Well, mister (or ma'am), you are in luck. I know just the place you should go.
It's a small little joint just south of Mocassin Trail called the Watering Hole. You've got to look hard or you'll likely pass right by it. A small shack with that cheap-ass sheet metal siding you see these days. One of those yellow flashing arrow signs with the block letters flashes and points to the establishment. Another sign on the front door awning gives further proof that if you were on you way to the Watering Hole, you have reached your destination.
You pull your car into the parking lot, a round-Robin affair covered with dust and gravel. Park in front if you plan to leave any time soon. Park in the back if you want to hang out and smoke pot with the band during their breaks. There are entrances on either side, the main difference being that the west entrance gets you straight to the band, while the east door gets you straight to the bar.
Let's assume that you've decided to utilize the west door, that you've parked out front because you've never been in this place...it could very well be a snake pit of violence and degradation, you may want to jump and run at any moment (you may want to jump and run the minute you walk in, for that matter). One glance inside and you rest at ease...there are no dagger-wielding Hell's Angels slobbering over fat biker chicks who think they're all BBWs. No psychos waving handguns in the air or crackheads passed out underneath the tables. No stinking piles of vomit scattered across the floor in a trail that starts at the bar and ends at the restroom (or it very well may start at the restroom and end at the bar). It's just your run-of-the-mill bar, two or three steps beneath what most would call a "club" and a half step above what all would consider a "dive".
Even before you came through the door you know that the band is playing some Eric Clapton song...they were pretty loud. Now that you're in you recognize it as some bizarre arrangement they've cooked up that combines aspects of "After Midnight" with "Cocaine". Not a bad idea, you think, until they wrap the whole thing up with the chorus from Smash Mouth's "Walking on the Moon". A skinny girl in a Pornstar tank top is yelling something in the bass player's ear. You will later learn that she was insisting that the band, in her words, "turn that fuckin' shit down!"
The jukebox, temporarily shut down for the sake of the band, is filled with the typical bar fare, some local favorites and a few songs that noone but the bouncer has ever heard of. The songs are arranged in an order that can best be described as "schizophrenic". Nevertheless, if you're patient, and you've got a couple of bucks, you can force everyone in the bar to listen to Clarence Carter's masterwork, "Strokin'", or the club re-mix of Kid Rock's "(I Wanna Be a) Cowboy", or maybe one of those racist David Allan Coe songs that you never hear in the higher class places. Then again, you could always play the Allman Brothers' "In Memory of Elizabeth Reed" and REALLY get your money's worth out of that jukebox.
Looking to the left you see a gaggle of gals shooting darts. A few are dressed in low cut capri pants that show off the trendy butterfly tattoos perched just above the cracks of their asses. Others wear cowboy boots, tight blues jeans that accentuate the chunk in their rumps, button-up western shirts...almost everyone has a short, cropped haircut. A couple of the latter have their arms around a couple of the former, but the management has asked me to inform you that, contrary to some rumours that have been floating around, the Watering Hole is NOT a "lesbian bar". Indeed, the degree to which the males significantly outnumber the females would seem to render that disclaimer unnecessary. But make no mistake, there a lot of lesbians who have nothing better to do than shoot darts and drink Zima on weekend nights at the "Hole".
One of the things you've no doubt noticed by this time are the distinct walls. It's not so much the 73 neon signs that hang there (2 of them turned off because they were causing a buzz in the band's PA system). It's not the life-size posters of scantily clad young vixens smiling seductively while offering the viewer a can of Coors Light. You see that kind of thing at every dive, right? The thing that sets the Watering Hole apart from the others is the particle board that covers the whole room, from floor to ceiling. Normally you'd think, "Well, they're probably cheap bastards who don't want to pay for decent panelling." And you'd likely be right about the "cheap bastard" bit, but closer investigation reveals that every inch of the walls is covered with names, dates, pithy phrases and other important information scribbled in white chalk. When you eventually wander over to the bandstand you'll see the names of practically every band that's ever been desperate enough to play here for $200. There's no time to read all the information presented her...it's better to just read the stuff written on the stall doors in the restroom.
"A grand idea!" you might think, "I need to use the men's room anyway" (even though you haven't even had a beer yet...you probably had a few on the way here, eh?). There's nothing special to recommend the shit-house poetry on the doors at the "Hole" over that of any other establishment that hasn't the manpower to wipe it off on a daily basis. Phone numbers (usually scratched out) of women who reportedly are skilled at one sexual activity or another. A few similar phone offers from men who would willingly do the same, to the extent that their gender permits. Messages that proclaim the superiority of the Oklahoma University football team. Responses from OSU fans to the extent that "OU Sucks". Others bypass the football loyalty completely and get to the point: "This Place Sucks". Of the three statements, only the third can be proven. "Debbie Wuz Here". "USA: Love It or Leave It!". "Jesus is the Answer"..."I done forgot what the question was..."
By the time you've read all that's worth reading in the bathroom you emerge back into the pervading darkness and stroll to the bar. There's a fat guy sitting on the inside corner, nodding his head and tapping his feet against the bar stool legs. The band doesn't realize it but he is the only one who is paying the slightest bit of attention to their show. He gulps down his third screwdriver and applauds wildly at their rendition of an old Billy Ray Cyrus song.
To his right, a few seats down the bar, is a couple who are attempting to reenact a scene from a show they saw on the Discovery channel. The mating technique of the African orangutan, they soon learn, is not an easy feat, especially when the bartender has insisted several times that they remain in their clothing. A few of the younger guys at a nearby table are leering at them. The orangutan-wannabes are fully aware of the youth's lustful stares, but not only don't they mind, they seem to encourage the voyeurism with winks and smiles, occasionally sticking their tongues out at them.
There are a couple of others on drunk's row, but they're nothing special. Their general routine is "chug chug, blah blah blah, chug chug, blah, blah, blah" on and on and on, hogging the bartender for all she's worth. If you try hard enough, though, you will eventually get her attention and her duty will compel her to provide you with the drink of your choice. Take my advice, friend. Order beer in a bottle...do not, under any circumstances, ask for anything that comes in a glass. Don't ask why, just know that what passes for dishwashing in this place is skimpy at best.
Drink your beer, make plans to motivate, but before you go you should take a few minutes to sit down and hear the band for awhile. They would certainly appreciate it (especially if they knew that you would be joining the fat man at the bar as the only ones who are paying attention to them).
They aren't a bad band, just your typical local jammers whose dreams of fame and fortune have been shattered, but hey, $50 a man ain't THAT bad. Besides, it's easy money when all you have to do is play the same songs you learned in high school for the thousandth time.
They're doing Springsteen's "Pink Cadillac" in a vain attempt to draw out some of the gals for a line dance. The singer gets to the part about "waving to the girls, feelin' outta sight", and the keyboard player waves at the audience and lecherously yells, "Hi girls!"...The song ends and the keyboard player grabs an acoustic guitar, "Does anybody here like Pink Floyd?", he asks. "We like Pink Floyd". At which point they play "Stairway to Heaven".
You think about maybe letting them know that "Stairway" is Zeppelin, not Floyd, but then you find yourself amused that they don't know the difference.
With this, you realize that the Watering Hole's entertainment value has reached it's peak. Now, you correctly ascertain, would be a good time to leave.
