my attempt at creative writing.
The Bathroom Wall
This is not what I thought it would be. Although I am surrounded by all of the familiar sights of the interior of the Grog Shop, I am sitting on the edge of a sea of people I am not used to. But it is really the only place I can sit. Underneath the black and white painting that I haven’t figured out yet. Every time I come here I look at that and try to figure out what the girl is doing with her leg and why other weird looking people are so out of place. But that is how I feel, out of place. I look out at everything. Everything around me, the Jukebox, the pinball machine, the photo booth, everything that is familiar to me is being taken over by these people. It makes me mad. These kids that have their brand new Converse All-Stars on with their per-ripped jeans and new vintage t-shirts, they don’t know that they are a walking contradiction. They don’t even know why they are where they are. At the Grog Shop.
I’m sitting on the red concrete floor next to something that seems like it is a little wet, then I notice that the ceiling is dripping next to me. I hold my hand out and feel the water coming from the snow or rain or whatever is going on out there. And all I can think about is how much I want to go outside. I want to get away from these people. I can’t even look at them anymore.
I got up when I became to restless in my thoughts and push my way through the crowd being careful to avoid stepping on people’s new shoes and being burnt by lit cigarettes. I made it to the sound booth in between the crowd of the stage and the crowd of the bar, where I saw Xela, my friend, who was working that night. We both give each other knowing looks and then look out in to the crowd. The crowd did not change with the bands. Still the same haircuts everywhere you looked, the same clothes, all tastefully torn to be trendy. Me and Xela just looked at each other and laughed. That made me feel better, at least I wasn’t the only one bothered by this.
After I left Xela, I made my way to the bathroom, where I am sitting in a chair in a corner now. Girls walk past me with out even acknowledging my presence, which is oddly calming. I don’t want to be seen by them. I am content away from the loud out of tune music, the blinking lights forcing my eyes to strain and the constant bombardment of people pushing past me. I am content to look at the walls. To look at what people took the time to write, so I could read it weeks, maybe months later. There is everything and nothing written on the wall. Who loves whom, what shows were playing when, all in various shades of sharpie and lipstick. People are moving in and out of the bathroom bringing their annoyances with them, and all I can think of is that just because someone looks different doesn’t mean they are.
I read the whole thing. Then the show was over and I left. The people were so fake, but the wall had such permanence. I kept wondering how many things that were so boldly written on there were factual, or if they were just as fake as the people who wrote it.
This is not what I thought it would be. Although I am surrounded by all of the familiar sights of the interior of the Grog Shop, I am sitting on the edge of a sea of people I am not used to. But it is really the only place I can sit. Underneath the black and white painting that I haven’t figured out yet. Every time I come here I look at that and try to figure out what the girl is doing with her leg and why other weird looking people are so out of place. But that is how I feel, out of place. I look out at everything. Everything around me, the Jukebox, the pinball machine, the photo booth, everything that is familiar to me is being taken over by these people. It makes me mad. These kids that have their brand new Converse All-Stars on with their per-ripped jeans and new vintage t-shirts, they don’t know that they are a walking contradiction. They don’t even know why they are where they are. At the Grog Shop.
I’m sitting on the red concrete floor next to something that seems like it is a little wet, then I notice that the ceiling is dripping next to me. I hold my hand out and feel the water coming from the snow or rain or whatever is going on out there. And all I can think about is how much I want to go outside. I want to get away from these people. I can’t even look at them anymore.
I got up when I became to restless in my thoughts and push my way through the crowd being careful to avoid stepping on people’s new shoes and being burnt by lit cigarettes. I made it to the sound booth in between the crowd of the stage and the crowd of the bar, where I saw Xela, my friend, who was working that night. We both give each other knowing looks and then look out in to the crowd. The crowd did not change with the bands. Still the same haircuts everywhere you looked, the same clothes, all tastefully torn to be trendy. Me and Xela just looked at each other and laughed. That made me feel better, at least I wasn’t the only one bothered by this.
After I left Xela, I made my way to the bathroom, where I am sitting in a chair in a corner now. Girls walk past me with out even acknowledging my presence, which is oddly calming. I don’t want to be seen by them. I am content away from the loud out of tune music, the blinking lights forcing my eyes to strain and the constant bombardment of people pushing past me. I am content to look at the walls. To look at what people took the time to write, so I could read it weeks, maybe months later. There is everything and nothing written on the wall. Who loves whom, what shows were playing when, all in various shades of sharpie and lipstick. People are moving in and out of the bathroom bringing their annoyances with them, and all I can think of is that just because someone looks different doesn’t mean they are.
I read the whole thing. Then the show was over and I left. The people were so fake, but the wall had such permanence. I kept wondering how many things that were so boldly written on there were factual, or if they were just as fake as the people who wrote it.