The Prima

The Prima Motel and Cocktail Lounge. By the name alone I should have known to stay away, but I reluctantly pulled into the lot and got out of my car. I studied the exterior of the Bar/Motel combo as I walked down the small hill towards the door that looked like an entrance to a mid evil dungeon. The building resembled many other buildings in this dead-end Pennsylvanian suburb; desolate, and obsolete.
The technological boom that had so rapidly transformed this country over the past twenty-five years had left this town in the dust, and its bitter, and simple-minded occupants came to the Prima to dull the relentless pain that was their lives. It served as a beacon in their hopeless and restless nights. It was a mistress to many married men. Me crashing their pity party was a threat to any semblance of unity that they had been so desperately clinging to. I had heard the stories of drunken brawls, "secret" drug peddling bye the Pagans, and the plebeian women, so I knew what I was walking in on, and part of me couldn't wait.
As I neared the front door, I peered through the window and saw three or four pagan-looking men laughing and shooting pool, and could tell that they did not want to be bothered. I decided to use the side door instead.
The second that the door closed behind me, I was overcome with a nervous stomach ache of regret, but I assured my self that at least I would get a memorable night out of the deal. I walked down the narrow corridor which for whatever reason, wreaked of egg salad, past the coat rack and could not help but notice the colorful row of stained Starter pullover jackets that were hugely popular among kids in my school in the mid 90's, but could now be found at any local thrift store. Around the corner, I turned into the bar with my head down so as to not make eye contact with any of the savage, blood-hungry locals. I watched the heads turn and focus in bewilderment as if I had walked in on a gang rape dressed as a police officer. The entire room took a deep breath and glared my way while I maneuvered past the beer cooler, and the massive shuffle board table ironically painted with a life size portrait of what looked like a very homosexual He-Man-esque Aryan character. There where a few opened seats at the end of the bar, underneath the hanging TV, so I took my seat, lifted my head, and was greeted with a roomful of "what-the-fuck-do-you-think-you're-doing?" looks.
I could see the evil rhetoric in their glassy, drunken eyeballs and with each man I caught staring he would look away in shame. From across the room I saw a man who looked like an ex soap operah star turned hardened biker, who later I would name "Night Hawk", exit the bathroom while fastening his belt. He made his way towards my side of the oddly shaped bar, his skunk-like black and gray long hair neatly parted down the middle. I noticed the red bandanna around his neck, his time tested boots, and silver chain wallet. He was the master of his world, it was obvious. I tried to put my self in his position, I wanted to know what was going through his head as every person was fixated on him. I though about the line my mother used to say to me when I would critique her driving; "It's my world, your're living in it. . . for now".
NightHawk reached his spot, put his hands on the back of his stool and professed, "Has anyone seen my will to live?...."
we all looked at him,
"I think I lost it."
The crowd let out a laugh, and I was not hesitant to join in. I had survived the gauntlet.
I ordered a few beers and was overly nice to the bartender. I knew that he hated his life. He must have. I tried to start a conversation with him, but he was somewhat awkward, and after drinking about 6 pints I lost interest, and focused on the enormous early twenty year old woman in white see-thru pants as she flirted with the willing but unable bottom feeders of the Prima Hotel and Coctail Lounge.
Mashed Potatoes on a Stool, as I called her, made me nauseas to look at, but I am sure that she had more greasy fingers and sick dicks in her than than the average self loathing pig. She craved compliments and affection so strongly that she didn't mind being a mattress. I could feel my blood pressure slowly rise while watching her gigantic, clumsy, egg-shaped body purposely bang into every middle aged man in her path like a steel ball in a pin ball machine. I tried to take my eyes off of her sweaty sluggish body and her pathetic attempts to lure her nightly feast.
My anger overtook me and stuck my brain like lightning. Violent images of me beating her with my stool, gutting her with a broken pint glass, and spewing her innards into the faces of the lowly, drunken piles of waste that were encouraging her quickly flashed in my mind. I set my beer on the counter and mustered the strength to block her out.
After a few moments of wishing her away, she went of the the back of the the cocktail lounge and began to set up the karaoke equipment. This gave me a chance to put my hatred aside for a few minutes. The spanish bartender said something to me that I pretended to understand, but did not. It wasn't until later that I realized that he was telling me that he was not going to serve me anymore because I was obviously intoxicated. I noticed a sign that read, "Don't drink and drive, cheap rooms available". I tried to imagine some of the horror scenes that taken place in those derilic rooms, but quickly snapped out of it when I realized that I didn't have the energy to think anymore. I was tired.
With my last ounce of energy, I raised my hands to cover my face. I felt the warmth of my sweat beads trickling down my face and quickly trapped them between my calloused palms and my cheeks in hopes that I could hide them. Even with my face hidden, I could still feel the heat from the neon signs that were carelessly strewn along the painted-over wall paper. I felt the gray wind, courtesy the nearby chain-smokers, blow across my face, slowly drying out my skin. This is hell. I thought to my self, as I stared at the Puerto Rican, or mexican, or whatever he was, bartender. This is the place we were warned about as children; minus the flames and the red man with horns. The opposite of god.
I knew that I would never see these people again, and wanted to take as much as the nightmare home with me as I could to warn the others. Everything about the place told me that me, and my kind were not welcomed back. The stiff, and uncomfortable bar stool who had lent its services to the countless sorry patrons before me, the solid wood table with long forgotten names and numbers etched into its thick layer of polyurethane, the smell of hot biker urine and year old fly paper that rushed into the room with every person who entered or exited the bathroom, I was never more aware of my surroundings, and the grave mistakes I had commited to land me there.
I fiddled with my pint glass, sloshing the warm bubbles around the bottom.