When I was back
in my hometown over Labor Day weekend, I had a drink at this converted railroad
depot bar with hanging martini glasses and old weathered painted wood furniture and Christmas lights behind the bar, and while I did that I read a book (an escaped
polygamist’s wife’s tale!) and waited for my one friend to show up.
After
she did that and we were talking for a bit, she asked the girl who was at the bar
where the restroom was, and she got a bunch of complicated directions in return
(something like, “go to the end of the bar, turn right, walk down the hallway,
turn right at the men’s restroom, go past the door of the open room, turn
left,” and then a couple more directions).
“Wow,” I was
like, “That sounds complicated. You’re
lucky no-one just calls it quits and goes and takes a piss in the lounge near the men's room. That might happen after a few drinks, you
know.”
“We do have that
fountain in there!”, the bartender was like, this younger (white) girl with
darker hair and very white skin and a stint in the armed services, if her talk
with her co-workers was to be believed.
“Seriously, though, every time I find the door, I’m like, am I in
Narnia?”
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