Peter McFeely

The cobblestones appeared green, reflecting light from the fluorescent lettering above the door of the bar. It had started to rain and they looked like lily pads floating in a filthy stream, broken glass and burger wrappers floating past in the current which slid down the hill. A plastic lid from a drinks cup washed up on the shore of Dylan’s shoe. He stood on the corner, twenty metres from the bar, pressed against a wall trying to keep himself dry, with only the five centimetres of plastic guttering which hung two floors above him and a favourable wind to protect him from the elements. His friends pushed him in the back, though the pressure was light as they held themselves back, as if outstretching an arm to lean on a rock at a cliff’s edge, holding all their weight on their heels for fear the rock may disappear over the edge and they along with it. “Let’s go,” one of them said with an astounding lack of conviction. Dylan inhaled deeply and cinched the drawstrings on his hood tight, beginning to briskly make his way across the polluted waterway. The tallest and ostensibly oldest looking in the group he had been volunteered to lead the way. Though he was tall, he wouldn’t look even his own age if he stood around in the rain too long. His friends shuffled behind him. They picked their steps carefully, desperate not to slip on the greased stones. They wished to feign nonchalance but might as well have approached the bar on ice skates, such was the confidence in their gait.

As they neared the door, they were drenched in a barrage of swearing, one of the bouncers gesticulating wildly at them. Dylan froze, his friends bumping into him. He thought about turning and racing away down the hill. To safety. They were supposed to have arrived earlier, before the bouncers were manning the door. But nerves had delayed them. They sat in the park too long, passing around juice bottles filled with vodka stolen from a family liquor cabinet. Even as they each developed second thoughts, the falling rain pushed them forwards. The park was no longer an option, they needed shelter, but could hardly return home. The carefully co-ordinated lie would collapse around them and, intentions becoming clear, their parents would undoubtedly let them have it. Now though, just steps from the door, Dylan thought this was a bad idea. It could wait until another night. They had survived their lives so far without being in a bar. Moments from fleeing, he realised the angry face poking from a huddle of black clothing was not shouting at them. He was roaring while he pointed a bloodied hand at another black ball, which emerged momentarily from the doorway, before retreating undercover from the elements.

Each of Dylan’s last 10 steps shortened in length, a confident stride far from mastered. He clutched the plastic University card in his coat pocket. Not a fake, but stolen from his brother. Though it was expired, the photo bore a strong resemblance to it’s new carrier. His friends had nothing. They hoped the veracity of his ID, not one of those flimsy print and laminate at home jobs, would compel the bouncers to wave them in, content there was no reason for a student to be socialising with a pair of 14 year olds. Dylan prayed he wouldn’t be asked for the card and came to a halt in front of the two fleece-covered lumps. From head to toe, insulated cotton fabric glistened with rain spray. Pushing their way under the awning of the bar, it was as if three lost ships had encountered two mossy rocks as they made for port from a storm. The rocks took no notice of them.

“I don’t know why I fucking do this,” one said to the other. The one with the flag, which Dylan realised was a handkerchief wrapped around his hand and dotted with blood. “Come here, when I’ve got a family at home and have to put up with a bunch of drunken fucking idiots. And get assaulted. And I’ll be lucky to get a penny from that tight prick who runs this place. I can’t even go get it stitched yet or I’ll not get paid for the night. Fucking joke.” The other rock listened quietly, a fat face nodding slowly. Unexpectedly, the rock rotated, pinpricks of eyes fighting their way through folds of fat to land upon Dylan and his friends. The angry rock mirrored the rotation and, as his friends retreated behind him, Dylan searched for some form of guiding light as he attempted to navigate the impasse.

“ID” the fat rock said. Dylan fought to control the violent tremors he felt were oscillating through his body. He was sure he was swaying back and forth as he clasped the small rectangle of plastic in his coat. He felt the edges digging into his skin, his fingers replicating his teeth and squeezing ever tighter. He withdrew the card. The angry rock pulled it from his hand with such ease Dylan felt as though he had been gently balancing it between his fingertips. The angry rock glared at him, then the card. The card then him. His other hand clutched the reddened cloth tightly, squeezing small drops of claret onto the concrete floor. His jaw worked slowly from side to side. Dylan thought he had seen something similar before; a rabid dog ready to pounce. What he didn’t know was the angry rock was sick and tired of stopping people from harming themselves and others. If someone, the angry rock thought, wants to get fucked up and then fuck someone else up why should he get in the way? He’s the one who winds up getting hurt, he reasoned, so why should he give a shit what this kid wants to do? He handed the card back to Dylan who nearly dropped it, his fingers trembling. The angry rock stood back. The fat one rocked on his feet, appearing to move but not actually going anywhere. The door was pushed open, a crack at first and then wide and welcoming. As Dylan squeezed between the rocks his friends stood frozen in the doorway. The angry rock glared at them and with a shake of the head motioned for them to follow.

The door slammed behind the boys. The emerald shine, crisp air and flowing rainwater was gone. They stood in a dingy cavern, sparingly lit by orange bulbs. Late in the night the air hung heavy with the smell of sweat, mixing with fumes of beer and cheap perfume to create a cocktail more sickly than anything which could have been mustered from behind the bar. Dylan ventured forward, his shoe slipping in a patch of vomit. Instinctively he grabbed at the nearest body, pulling on a shirt to regain his balance. The straggle-haired owner of the clothing turned. His face asked Dylan what do you want but his mouth said “FUCK OFF”. Wide-eyed, Dylan slipped past, taking in the bar in it’s entirety. The music posters and battered metal signs, the motifed mirror which ran the length of the back bar and the clutch of foreign currencies which were pinned above it. The bar was everything Dylan had imagined, from stories and TV and pictures and hope. But more than he could ever have expected. The wall of sound which filled the room, created by just four musicians on a small wooden platform; the girls, bouncing out of their revealing clothing as they danced; the boys, awkward and stuttering, trying to dance along and grab a girl by the waist; the men and women, in leather and slim cut jeans, leaning on tables and walls. It was the people who created the aura of the bar. This unique gathering of conflicting personalities of which Dylan and his friends were now a part. They combined to generate an irreplaceable character which only this room could claim. And yet, the bar itself left an imprint on all its visitors, a memory which would be absorbed and expressed in different ways by those who graced the wooden boards. Dylan lifted his head to the ceiling and shouted in glee. His friends did likewise and the three embraced, jumping up and down amidst a harbour of weaving boats. “Dylan! It worked!” They laughed and screamed. “Can you get us drinks?” Dylan nodded, grinned and made for the bar. Edging past bigger, older men, jostled and ignored with drink spilt on and around him, he felt the sensation of invincibility recede. He leant on the counter, trying to muster once more an air of confidence and maturity while twitches raced up and down his legs.