In my ridiculous job, I find myself in many unsavory situations. Last week was one of those times. I found myself in the basement of an old church that had been drenched during the Great Rain of ’14. My assignment was to look at moving a wad of ancient furniture around this disgusting lower level so that tile and carpet could be replaced (and if that’s not an advertisement to get your college degree, I don’t know what is...Jackson).
I was shown around by a crusty church watchdog who could not wait to get out of the lower level and all of its yech. He told me to lock up behind myself and then high tailed it (old fart style) up the steps and out the door.
I worked as fast as I could, touched as little as I could and was ready to high tail it (middle aged style) up the steps and out the door.
But first, urination.
I had noticed a small men’s room next to the stage in the social hall. I walked in, flicked on the light and was pleased by it’s cleanliness. It looked like every school bathroom ever seen. Green tile floor, textured brick walls, two urinals that reached down to the floor and a toilet behind gray door. I moved over to the urinal and considered what a good idea it was to have one that went all the way down to the floor and ended with a foot in diameter porcelain circle that you straddle while pissing. Every men’s room that has the abrupt mid-air ending urinal features a disgusting testimony to man’s poor aim on the floor.
When the first drop of my whizz hit the bottom of the urinal, a huge and hairy centipede appeared from under the porcelain rim of the previously praised piss catching circle.
“Shit”.
My word echoed around the room as I involuntarily stepped back and regarded my enemy. He was big, but I was bigger. He had a million hairy legs, but I stood firm on dry tile. He had places to hide, but I had a powerful coffee induced stream at the ready (yes, it’s still strong in my late 50’s).
I would win and I would make him pay for scaring me.
I focused on him and let fly. The stream sent him scrambling to the bottom of the basin where he sought relief under the rim. He went right rim, so I leaned to the left and fired under the rim. When he scrambled to the rim on the opposite side, I leaned opposite and strafed. After a few seconds of this cat and mouse game, he tried to go up and out. Now I was mad. I hit him hard and he tumbled to the bottom and quit moving. The last fifteen seconds were piling on and purely personal.
I zipped up and walked away. The Urinal War had ended and I was victorious.
A few days ago, I found myself back in this disgusting basement, working with our moving crew explaining what the program was for the day.
Once again, my visit ended in a need to relieve. As I walked back toward the men’s room, I thought of those old horror films from the 50’s and 60’s where an outside source like atomic waste would wash over an innocent bystander such as a spider and turn the spider into a huge beast that would terrify the surrounding area and baffle the clueless authorities. What if my urine had the same effect on the centipede? What might I find when I flicked on the light? Would a twenty foot centipede be waiting to hold me down and get his revenge by drowning me in his disgusting liquid waste?
I could have gone to the safety of a nearby McDonalds, but that would be chicken shit. I went in, flicked on the light and looked immediately to the urinal on the right. My urinal. He was there, looking like a lost eyebrow on the stark white porcelain. He fidgeted slightly, a proud warrior. He hadn’t changed in size, though he somehow looked different. More erect, squarer through the shoulder perhaps.
I stood, hand on light switch for a brief second. I nodded, turned off the light and moved on to the bland safety of a fast food bathroom.
Partner in Bug Juice and younger brother Anthony and I were certainly not bugged to be going to Sports Venue Bar on Middlebelt Road in lovely Garden City.
We were tipped to the joint by my son Max. He had spent the previous week at this place with his drinking mates, Carly and Luke. I asked him to give me the lowdown on SVB over dinner one night. As Max is a slave to organization and thoroughness, I was not surprised to see him grab a piece of paper so that he could give me the layout of the bar while describing it in vivid detail. The key, according to young Max, is that Sports Venue is two bars in one, one side for sports and one for dancing.
One aspect left off his drawing was a picture of a red car flying up and down Middlebelt Road in a desperate search for the bar and the amber gold waiting inside. I went three miles past, before turning around and whizzing by it again in the opposite direction (yes, I am well aware that I used the word “whizzing”). After a great amount of cursing and one last illegal U-turn, we pulled into the crowded lot. For the record, SVB is on the west side of Middlebelt, north of Ford Road and is somewhat difficult to see.
Once inside, my partner in booze and I made our way to the long bar which dominates the “sports” portion of the bar. Our usual Miller Light and Labatt set us back a paltry $5.50. It was doled out by one of a handful of servers, all of whom featured dick and balls. Why a sports bar is not staffed by women is a mystery to this grizzled bar veteran. The guys were attentive and did fine, but again, the dick and ball thing is not great.
The sports side of SVB featured multiple televisions, keno and a handful of games for the more adventurous. A variety of tables and chairs were scattered in front of the bar, all of them with a fine view of the flatscreens. Even though sports is the name of the game in this area, the mix of men and women was decent. This did not appear to be a hooking up area, and that worked fine for those in attendance.
As Max noted via illustration, what makes SVB different, is the adjoining “dance” portion of the bar. It is easily seen (good) and heard (not so good), through decorative holes in the wall. A small dance floor saw sporadic and spasmodic action. The tables around the floor and DJ were crowded with the curious and the horny.
Tony and I were content to stand at the long bar on the sports side. Serious boozing ensued, with Tony going smorgasbord: Labatt, Corona, Rolling Rock, Coors, Buckhorn, Weidemann, Red Cap, Keystone, Old Milwaukee, Hamms, Black Label (some of these were real choices, some not; you figure out which is which).
Just as we were considering a move to the dance side of the equation, the door swung open and the Mod Squad of Dive Bars entered: Max, Luke and Miss Carly.
Tony and I were delighted to see this next generation and called them over immediately. I had to hug my big man, daring anybody to have a problem. Nobody cared, or noticed for that matter. Relax, Jim.
These three know the right way to behave at a bar. They don’t treat the staff like servants, tip well and have fun, but not “look at me” fun. This trio can hang with the Bug Juice Two any time (even if Luke orders his Corona with a shot of grenadine poured right into the bottle).
When the youngsters made noise about grabbing a table on the dance side, Tony slammed the brakes on that idea, informing them that they were going to hang at the bar with their elders until we were ready to split.
We split before closing, but not before enjoying our visit to Sports Venue Bar in general and hanging with the kids in particular. I don’t see myself retiring from visiting bars any time soon, but I feel comfortable knowing that when I do, three pretty cool kids are ready to pick up the slack.
Cheers! Jim
