He staggered in from the rain into the bustling bar area. A milling throng lay between him and the bar. Slurred voices, clinking glass, the smell of a carpet soaked in beer. The atmosphere was drunk, staggering, slow-moving, slightly aggressive. A sweaty and overweight cover band was doing a cover of an AC/DC song.
Whiskey… Fuck’s sakes, I need a whiskey. The man thought. A hand in the back pushed him forth into the lurching mob as it danced in ragged unison and shrieked/moaned along with the chorus: “You shook me AAAAALLLL NIIIIIGHT LONG,”
A man who’s entire v-neck shirt was a sweatstain and who’s eyes told of dangerous drugs grabbed our man on the shoulder, pointed at the roof and yelled, “WOOO!” and then “HA – HAAAAA!... YEAH!”
He despised the wearers of v-necked shirts; but nodded and forced a smile at the man, shouldered past into the jampacked bottleneck cattlepress at the bar. A fat chick grabbed his arse. He looked around, smiled awkwardly, turned back to face the bar. He felt his arse grabbed again; ignored it. Again. Ignored it. Dumpling seemed to get the point.
It was hot. He wasn’t sure now how much of the moisture on him was rain, how much was sweat. “Better make it a double,” he thought… “Two doubles.”
He got caught up in the jostling. At least four people were rubbing against him at any time. He used his elbows to make use of gaps ahead, pulling himself forward.
“Chrissakes” the man muttered, as he broke through to the bar at last and propped his elbows on the sticky, lacquered wood. He cursed his luck at getting stuck behind the taps. Nobody sees you from behind the taps, and if they do, they leave it to somebody else to serve you. Nobody knows why... it just sucks to be behind the taps.
Finally he got noticed, yelled for two doubles, whiskey. Yes, coke. Why not? He fumbled with change and small notes shoved it at the sullen broad in the tanktop. It looked a long time since she’d smiled.
He slammed one down, left the glass behind. Didn’t wait for change. Squirmed his way through the writhing mass to the edge of the dancefloor. Space, a place to catch a breath. He smelt the sweet smell of marijuana wafting from the front of the moshpit somewhere. Figured it dark and grimy enough to light a cigarette.
Rough, shoving hands grabbed his shoulders. “No smokin’, son.”
The gig was up. He didn’t even get to finish his drink.