The town was virtually dead, known to anyone passing through as simply “the speed trap.” It was true, most of its revenue came from the pockets of travelers who missed the 45 miles per hour signs. And who could blame them? There was no town visible except for a few gas stations and fast food restaurants.
According to some, the town had died when they built the overpass over the railroad tracks, allowing travelers to pass over it in seconds. Others said it was the orange crop freezing at the turn of the century.
The poverty was evident. Two streets over, empty shells of houses exposed themselves to passers-by, as if the abandoned toys and bicycles littering the yard had been squeezed out through the open doors and windows. With everything wide open, it was as if the former residents were a flock of birds that had simply been released out of the openings.
“Why did I come back here?” he asked himself, as he stood in the doorway of the coffee shop/art gallery he had opened on the corner in the old, brick building that had formerly been the town's bank. There was no bank at all now.
He had his own newspaper column in LA and could have just as easily started a trendy, environmentally friendly coffee shop out there. But something was always there, a nagging feeling that he had run away from his past. He wanted to bring something back to the community even though they didn’t accept him.
Still, it wasn’t too bad. He had only been called a “fag” one time since he’d been back and that time not directly to his face.
And a place like this brought the liberals out of the woodwork. There were more artists and vegetarians in the area than he ever imagined, and they filed in and out in their sandals and khaki shorts.
Rays of light shown in from the shop-sized windows that lined the two walls facing the highway. The shop was furnished with second-hand couches, tables, and even a couple of the pews from the old Episcopal church, which was ironic because they had never approved of his lifestyle.
Because the old building was designed to be cool without air conditioning, he could be “eco-friendly” and only use the fans. Still, the Florida summer heat ensured that a majority of his sales were iced coffees.
Roland, known to his friends as Ro, adjusted his khaki-colored cap which always covered his short, fashionably greying hair. Even under the old cap, his deep blue eyes shone brilliantly. It was a particularly hot afternoon, so he turned on the industrial-sized fans.
Just outside the door, a boy about ten or 11 pulled up on an oversized bike and stood balancing with one foot on the ground, the other on the pedal. He was a typical town kid, in knee-length shorts, a sleeveless basketball jersey, and dirty tennis shoes.
“How you doin,’” Ro said.
“I was wondering if I could sweep off your sidewalk for some money,” the boy said.
Ro looked out at the walk, lined with newly planted miniature azaleas, and it was evident that Pam, his only part-time employee, a trendy college girl from South Florida, had already swept. But still, he wanted to help the boy somehow.
“Well, we already did it this morning, but there’s some stuff you could help me with in the courtyard out back” he said.
The boy looked inside, hesitant. They were not alone. Several customers sat chatting with Pam at the tables by the big open windows. Another student sat staring into his laptop.
“No,” the boy said. “My mom told me that if I came to work for you, not to let you take me in the back.”
His heart sank. The old feeling was back, the feeling of being watched, being judged. “She wouldn’t just say something like that specifically about me without explaining why,” he thought.
“Thanks, I’ll find someone else,” he told the boy.
The hardest part was that he really loved kids. As a volunteer in the relief effort after Katrina, he’d helped put bows on all the toys for the children to make it feel like Christmas. In the Angel march to commemorate Matthew Shepherd, he had seen children with their parents holding anti-gay protest signs. One particular child held one saying “Matt in Hell,” and he wondered if he knew what it meant. What was funny about it, though, was when he noticed one of the kids yawning behind his sign. Hate doesn’t begin early, he thought. If it does, they don’t know why they are doing it, just mimicking the adults in their life.
He can only smile cautiously when the rows of kids file by the windows after school lets out, but it never gets any easier.
Monday, April 20, 2009
Karaoke Night at the Oasis
Any other night, it could be mistaken for any other of the ordinary dive bars sprinkled along highway 301. But this night was different. Underneath the neon sign that reads Oasis Lounge, the block letters spelled out “KARAOKE.”
Walking in past the parking lot various motorcycles, predominantly Harley Davidsons, line up along the wall. As the door squeaks open, a cloud of cigarette smoke billows out as if the bar itself is exhaling after a long drag.
The place is tiny, about the size of a two-car garage. It looks like a typical bar with tall stools, a few tables with chairs, and one lone pool table, which is never empty.
The bartender slaps a roach about the size of a dime off the counter and looks around to see if anyone noticed. But anyone who has spent more than a few minutes there has seen them, scuttling across the bar and even across the tops of the straws in the straw holder with the Tommy Bahamas Rum logo.
Even more invasive than the roaches is the pervading smell of cigarette smoke that clouds the room. Even after a few minutes, any visitor’s clothing and hair are permeated with the sickening smell. There is nothing quite like being awakened by the smell of your own hair after a night at the bar. Smoking is banned only in bars that serve a certain amount of food. However, one can hardly call the corn dogs and pickled pig’s feet they serve here food.
On an ordinary night, and before the karaoke begins, the soundtrack consists of the light murmur of conversation accompanied by the clack-clacking of balls on the pool table. Or maybe an occasional tune from the juke box, which offers a wide selection from Kid Rock to Conway Twitty. A favorite is Friends in Low Places, by Garth Brooks mostly because of the line: “Think I’ll slip on down to the Oasis.”
Then it begins. The song starts of normally with the instrumental entrance, then the grinding, screeching, off-pitch racket like nails against a chalk board blasts out of the two-foot tall speakers. A large monitor displays the words, which often sounds nothing like what is being sung. A good night is when nobody knocks the monitor over in a drunken stupor.
Not every singer is bad. One young woman, who has progressed to the Hollywood level on the hit series singing competition: American Idol, belts out a soulful rendition of the bluegrass classic Old Rocky Top. But this is the exception rather than the rule. The DJ plays requested songs between the off-pitch, howling of tunes such as Gretchen Wilson’s Redneck Woman, Neil Diamond’s Forever in Blue Jeans, and even one particularly wretched version of Zombie by the Cranberries. Some songs one would never associate with karaoke, such as Twisted Transistor by Korn.
Sitting at the bar, a black leather-clad couple seems to meld into one another as the seemingly romantic song Pour Some Sugar on Me plays. Another couple grinds on the dance floor, which is virtually nonexistent. Dancers must weave between the bar and the pool tables, which results in a great many missed shots as they stagger into the extended pool sticks. Anyone who wants to go to the bathroom must brave this fearful mob.
A gathering of performing circus freaks might be more aesthetically pleasing and perhaps less unusual than this crowd. Everyone looks about ten years older than they actually are, most likely the result of heavy alcohol and cigarette consumption. But everybody finds somebody. The blossoming romance between the man with toes for thumbs and the woman with no teeth is the talk of the night.
An incredibly drunk woman at the bar has been doing shots of what they call “blowjobs,” which is two ounces of Kahlua and vodka topped with whipped cream. The only acceptable way to imbibe such a drink is obviously to pick it up off the counter with one’s mouth and throw the head back, distributing the contents down the throat. This woman has had a few too many, and as she throws her head back, the drink goes all over her face instead of in her mouth. This naturally incites a roar of laughter from the crowd, and several rude comments about what drink she spilled on her face.
This will go on from about 9 p.m. until 2 in the morning, until everyone is too drunk to sing, but okay to drive, according to them. The bartenders frequently end up becoming taxi drivers at the end of the night. Getting the last few stragglers out of the bar is another chore, but usually just blasting Tupac’s Greatest hits album will clear the room.
The party’s over until next week.
Walking in past the parking lot various motorcycles, predominantly Harley Davidsons, line up along the wall. As the door squeaks open, a cloud of cigarette smoke billows out as if the bar itself is exhaling after a long drag.
The place is tiny, about the size of a two-car garage. It looks like a typical bar with tall stools, a few tables with chairs, and one lone pool table, which is never empty.
The bartender slaps a roach about the size of a dime off the counter and looks around to see if anyone noticed. But anyone who has spent more than a few minutes there has seen them, scuttling across the bar and even across the tops of the straws in the straw holder with the Tommy Bahamas Rum logo.
Even more invasive than the roaches is the pervading smell of cigarette smoke that clouds the room. Even after a few minutes, any visitor’s clothing and hair are permeated with the sickening smell. There is nothing quite like being awakened by the smell of your own hair after a night at the bar. Smoking is banned only in bars that serve a certain amount of food. However, one can hardly call the corn dogs and pickled pig’s feet they serve here food.
On an ordinary night, and before the karaoke begins, the soundtrack consists of the light murmur of conversation accompanied by the clack-clacking of balls on the pool table. Or maybe an occasional tune from the juke box, which offers a wide selection from Kid Rock to Conway Twitty. A favorite is Friends in Low Places, by Garth Brooks mostly because of the line: “Think I’ll slip on down to the Oasis.”
Then it begins. The song starts of normally with the instrumental entrance, then the grinding, screeching, off-pitch racket like nails against a chalk board blasts out of the two-foot tall speakers. A large monitor displays the words, which often sounds nothing like what is being sung. A good night is when nobody knocks the monitor over in a drunken stupor.
Not every singer is bad. One young woman, who has progressed to the Hollywood level on the hit series singing competition: American Idol, belts out a soulful rendition of the bluegrass classic Old Rocky Top. But this is the exception rather than the rule. The DJ plays requested songs between the off-pitch, howling of tunes such as Gretchen Wilson’s Redneck Woman, Neil Diamond’s Forever in Blue Jeans, and even one particularly wretched version of Zombie by the Cranberries. Some songs one would never associate with karaoke, such as Twisted Transistor by Korn.
Sitting at the bar, a black leather-clad couple seems to meld into one another as the seemingly romantic song Pour Some Sugar on Me plays. Another couple grinds on the dance floor, which is virtually nonexistent. Dancers must weave between the bar and the pool tables, which results in a great many missed shots as they stagger into the extended pool sticks. Anyone who wants to go to the bathroom must brave this fearful mob.
A gathering of performing circus freaks might be more aesthetically pleasing and perhaps less unusual than this crowd. Everyone looks about ten years older than they actually are, most likely the result of heavy alcohol and cigarette consumption. But everybody finds somebody. The blossoming romance between the man with toes for thumbs and the woman with no teeth is the talk of the night.
An incredibly drunk woman at the bar has been doing shots of what they call “blowjobs,” which is two ounces of Kahlua and vodka topped with whipped cream. The only acceptable way to imbibe such a drink is obviously to pick it up off the counter with one’s mouth and throw the head back, distributing the contents down the throat. This woman has had a few too many, and as she throws her head back, the drink goes all over her face instead of in her mouth. This naturally incites a roar of laughter from the crowd, and several rude comments about what drink she spilled on her face.
This will go on from about 9 p.m. until 2 in the morning, until everyone is too drunk to sing, but okay to drive, according to them. The bartenders frequently end up becoming taxi drivers at the end of the night. Getting the last few stragglers out of the bar is another chore, but usually just blasting Tupac’s Greatest hits album will clear the room.
The party’s over until next week.
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