I’m in this bar last Tuesday, right? It’s a real happening place. Well lit, which should have been my first signal I wasn’t meant to be there. Everything had this blue glow about it: the bar, the walls, the tables. I heard somewhere the color blue is supposed to be calming. Not here. This place reeked of desperation: the desperation of 150 twenty-something’s frantically trying to find love before their 30th birthday.

      Another quality of this place that I’m unaccustomed to: the presence of females. Women don’t tend to flock to bars that look like they give you the clap just by crossing their threshold, so this is all kind of new to me. I’m not sure how to carry myself among them, especially these types. It’s 25 fucking degrees outside and these tramps are wearing miniskirts and blouses that show enough cleavage I feel like I could dive in and find the buried treasure of Jose Gaspar.

      So, I’m looking at the drink menu and for the life of me I cannot find a single fucking beer. Everything is “passion fruit” this and “berry delight” that. If I wanted a Bartles and James I would have gotten in my time machine, gone back to 1992 and drank that shit up. But I don’t, so I order a gin and tonic and the dumb bitch behind the bar looks at me like I’m some kind of sewer rat, because god knows that’s the only type of person that wouldn’t want her world famous “red bull amaretto vodka.” Give me a fucking break.

      I take a seat in the corner of the place with a wall on both sides of me. At least there I don’t have to live in fear of some “dude-bro” sneaking up from behind. I’m sipping on my drink when this girl catches my eye. She’s not like the others. Maybe it was because she didn’t look like the prom queen who had just been violated in the backseat of a lime green 2002 Toyota Corolla belonging to her date’s step father. Or, it could have been that she was wearing a t-shirt and jeans. It could really go either way.

      We’re making eye contact. Doing the whole stare then look away thing. And then, our eyes meet in a fixed gaze that can only be compared to that time when James Bond was being chased by Hugo Drax through the canals of Venice, right? And just when you think Bond can’t escape his gondola turns into a hovercraft and he leaves Drax drinking his engine runoff. Yeah, it was that good.

      Some time passes and I’ve built up the courage to approach her, so I get up from my seat all cool and such and make my way towards the bar. I sit down next to her, and keep in mind that I believe I have just been eye fucking with this girl for a solid ten, and I say, “This place is pretty lame, am I right?” And then I literally did the elbow thing where you mime elbowing somebody so that they act like they are agreeing with you. She doesn’t say anything.

      I’m thinking, well, maybe she didn’t hear me. They have this weak ass techno-pop shit playing and it’s certainly a possibility that she was too transfixed by the remix of “Dream Police” by Cheap Trick to have heard me. So, then I asked her what she was doing in a bar on a Tuesday. Stupid question, I know, but this is what happens when your only female contact is your weekly Sunday phone call to Nana in the retirement community.

      As I’m sitting there with this dumb grin on my face, she turns in her chair and gives me a look that could make me go soft even if I was watching highlights of the 1996 Chicago Bulls glorious championship run. Pippen… to Jordan! It was that bad. She didn’t say anything; hell, she didn’t even make a sound. To be honest, I don’t even think she was breathing. I half expected her head to start spinning on her torso. I’ve never been so terrified in my life. I left the bar in fear that I might defecate in my pants, and, quite frankly, I just got these pants and I rather like them. So, I went back to my apartment and my roommate was gone for the week, which is a pretty good indicator of what I did next... I jerked off. But, it was different. I just couldn’t get the picture of that girl’s face out of my head. It came to the point that I couldn’t even get it up. This got me depressed. I have very little in my life that makes me happy, and jacking my beanstalk is one of those things.

      So, instead of getting off to some chick with boobs that definitely give her back problems, I decided call some buddies. This time, we hit the liquor store, went back to my place, and played some cards. And you know what? I felt totally fulfilled. Much better than I did at that bar trying to pick up a chick who was apparently way out of my league, much better than being insulted by a fucking bar wench over my drink choice, and much better than having to feel inadequate because I don’t have a collar to pop. So, I’m making a promise. It’s a promise to me, and anyone else who wants to join me is welcome. No longer will I let THEM run my life! Too long have I let people who are below me dictate my actions and emotions. Down with the mother fucking fakers and phonies of the world! I’m with the people who aren’t afraid to order cheap beer, wear a t-shirt and jeans, and play Dylan on the jukebox.

About the author:

Jason Polevoi was first recognized for his writing when his screenplay “Archer” won the 2007 Written Image Award for student feature length screenplays at Columbia College Chicago. While he most enjoys writing for films, he has several other short form pieces available for solicitation upon request. When he isn’t writing, Jason enjoys eating candy, basking in the glorious works of Jack White, and laughing at the misfortune of small children.

Jason can be contacted either by phone at (847) 924-8264 or by email at jpolevoi29@yahoo.com