They aren’t bull shitting, this really is a back alley joint.
They claim their address is 211 1/2 Main Street. There is a 211, which is a wine bar. There is a 213, which is something else. Two-twelve is across the street. I had parked on the street and was very confused. I walked down the block, there was a bar down at one end, and it looked good–but it wasn’t the Back Alley. So then I went the other way, and there was a bar at that end. They were setting up for a band, but they weren’t the Back Alley either. They also had a cover.
“Five dollars,” said the man at the door.
It was cold outside and I was getting pissed because I wanted to drink at a new microbrew place. I also felt like I was above paying for the privilege of paying to drink beer, so I did the check my phone trick.
“Sorry bud, I don’t know if this is what I have in mind,” I said, then stared attending to my phone. “Let me text my friend and see what she wants to do.”
I don’t think he was fooled, but he must have appreciated the courtesy of bull shitting him about it because he was content to let me Google the location of the brewery, all while maintaining use of the indoor heat of the building.
Then two hot girls walked in, and they were really, really drunk.
“Five dollars,” said the bouncer as if he was getting the full value out of his one memorized line.
This did not sit well with the blonde drunk chick.
“What the fuck!” she screamed, making a scene that only hot, blonde, belligerent, drunk girls can make.
Then she and the guy began to argue. Impressively, he remained very even-keel, never raising his voice, or even hinting that his blood pressure might be rising due to the escalating occurrence–no matter how many times Drunk Girl A informed him of the bull shitness of the situation.
All the while, the dark-haired, Drunk Girl B came and stood next to me, making sure to make her presence known by rubbing my arm and leaning against me.
She had earned my attention.
“This place is fucking bull shit,” she slurred.
I decided to agree.
“Fuck this place,” she said, rubbing the wadded up straw wrapper in the front pocket of my shirt that she mistook for my nipple. “Why don’t you give us a ride back to your house and have a threesome with me and my friend?”
I began to lose interest in the Back Alley.
Drunk Girl A came over, and Drunk Girl B told her that I was going to give them a ride home.
“My fucking ass he is!” The blonde screamed. Now the whole bar was staring. I was sober and very cognizant of all of this. “I am taking us home,” she continued. “I am the des-erg-nated driver!”
She had to slow down so that she could correctly pronounce all of the syllables of desergnated.
“It’s cool if you want to drive, after all, you are the designated driver,” I said quietly.
“Yeah. I’m the desergnated driver,” she said, putting her hand on my chest.
I was self-conscious because we were the center of attention. I was also a little nervous that some good Samaritan was watching and preparing to call the cops and report a drunk driver as soon as we left.
I don’t believe in drunk driving–unless it is for a good reason like a threesome.
The girls ultimately decided that we should keep drinking somewhere in order to sober up. I thought that this was a solid plan.
“Let’s try the Back Alley Brewery,” I said.
They were willing and we went outside. I was hoping they knew where it was.
Drunk Girl B started hanging all over me as we stood on the sidewalk. Our desergnated driver was wobbling and looked ready to pass out.
“Oh my God,” she said. “I don’t think I can do this. I am not fucking anyone tonight.”
The two girls started arguing.
Sure I was disappointed but, a threesome did seem too good to be true. A twosome didn’t seem too bad though, so my spirits were still up.
The blonde girl pointed out that the last time that they had had a threesome, it was with Eric, and then they found out that that bastard had gonorrhea. She didn’t want to have to worry about whether or not she had gonorrhea again.
“Just because I got a yeast infection doesn’t mean I got gonorrhea,” the dark haired one said.
This was the moment that I became disinterested in these two young ladies.
“Hey, you know, I think I left my wallet in the bar. Why don’t you two go in that wine bar and order a glass, and I will meet you in there.” They ushered themselves in, still debating the gonorrhea versus yeast infection question.
I quickly darted down an alley. I didn’t know where I was going to go, but I was getting the fuck out of there.
The alley emptied into a parking lot. I looked around and saw a door with print stenciled on it.
“BACK ALLEY BREWING, ENTRANCE”
I went in and sat at the bar. The place was low key, surprisingly clean and smoke free. Fox News was on one TV, ESPN was on the other. Coach from Cheers poured me a beer.
I was the only one there, save for the guy in the corner plucking on his laptop. A few people did cut through. There was an entry way that went into some other business–probably an art gallery.
Coach and I entered into a discussion on politics. Hillary Clinton and Donald Trump were both dominating the news. He had never been, but I assured him that he would like Canada. As the evening grew, more and more traffic cut through between the parking lot and the other place. Coach was visibly annoyed, but did his best not to let it show. He was a professional barkeep–the kind from old country songs.
“What is over there that all these people keep coming from?” I finally asked.
“It’s a wine bar,” he said.
“I think I am ready to pay my tab,” I said.
And as I said this, two loud and familiar drunk girls came walking through. I hunched my shoulders and pulled my hat down low.
“I can’t believe that guy ditched us,” one said.
“It’s because you told him I have the clap,” the other one said.
After they left, I could feel that my face must have been beet red.
“Do you know those two?” Coach asked as I signed my receipt.
“No,” I lied.
“I do” piped the guy on the laptop.
“Oh Eric, you know everybody,” Coach laughed.
Buy Me a Beer Ass Hole 