There used to be a douchey little club near the hockey arena. The owner was the cousin of my friend Isaac—this was more than enough connection to get me to check it out. Isaac and I went on a weeknight, paid full price and played Pac Man.
The place filled up with 30 something women in short skirts and pornstar heels flirting with greasy-haired muscles in half-buttoned dress shirts. We heard multiple Nelly songs. Isaac came close to his all-time high score more than once.
When we were on our last quarter, a couple of the greasy-haired muscles started shouting. Pretty soon the shouts turned to swings. The tussle spilt my beer. It’s always the innocent that get hurt most in these types of situations.
I think the bouncer sensed that a beverage was in danger, because he came running. He parted the crowd like the Red Sea. The man had a face tattoo, which I assume meant he did not take shit. Most people tend get out of the way of big men with face tattoos. He grabbed one guy by the collar and the other by the head and dragged them out of the bar.
It’s the little things I miss about my hometown.