My Life, Sans Bars

When I took the job I currently have, I did so knowing that I would have to relocate. And not just any relocation. I was moving to WEST TEXAS.

Not just the west side of Houston- this was beyond even Katy. Not even west to Austin or San Antonio. No, all. the. way. west. Like, close to the New Mexico west.

For those of you unfamiliar, let me paint you a picture. I'm a fairly urban person. I thrive in densely populated neighborhoods. I like diverse populations and ethnic food. I drive with a sense of urgency.

Houston has (depending on who is measuring and how they're doing it) about 4 million people- give or take a hundred thousand or so. The town I am currently residing in has *almost* 13,000- give or take a hundred or so.

Notice the very large discrepancy between those two numbers. And I was pretty sure the 13,000 people i would be living with were NOT the 13,000 crazies/hipsters/urbanites that lived in my immediate neighborhood in Houston. These would be small town folks, born and raised.

Nevertheless, I'm an adventuring sort, and I accepted the contract (which, by the way, requires quite a bit of work outside- yet another "new experience" I was a touch apprehensive about, to say the least- AND, in case you were curious, I actually have grown to like quite a bit). SO my yearly studies all finished, I packed up Mariah (my slate grey Saturn) and headed out west.

The trip out was quite wonderful. I'm a huge fan of road trips, and this one proved to be quite satisfying- I drove fast, sang at the top of my lungs, managed to get out of a ticket for going 16 over the posted limit (the combination of my not being from the area, the 44 oz Big Chug in my cup holder, and some very convincing but not-quite-obnoxious protestations that my bladder was about to burst (thank you, MFA training) seemed to do the trick).

I arrived in good spirits and was promptly made aware that the application for the housing I had turned in and received email confirmation about had not actually been received (confuse me?) and I had no place to move into. To spare the details, I'll suffice to say that I was hastily put in an apartment the next day (after some kind friends offered a couch) with some roommates. The apartment was, shall we say, not exactly spic and span (for more about THAT situation and where it went, read the previous post).

As I began to acquaint myself with the town, there were some definite oddities: in a town this size there are 5 (!!!) Asian restaurants but only 2 Mexican (and we're like, 3 minutes from the border- ok, maybe a little bit more than that, but only like 15), the Walmart closes at 11 PM, and what was soon to become the most unnerving fact: this town is in a dry county. No bars.

I'll repeat that for emphasis:

NO. BARS.

There is one restaurant that manages to have a bar because it's a 'private establishment' by some sort of legal finagling, but otherwise nothing.

To be fair, my friends whom had worked with the company the previous summer had made me aware of this arrangement. I remember hearing the words "dry county" but really, what does that mean? Lets go discuss it over a beer.

Well, what it means is- you can't go discuss it over a beer, unless you want to pay $5 for said beer or you want to do it in an apartment where the floor might be alive in certain areas.

'Ok, fine,' I think, 'I don't need a bar.'

And that, actually, was a lie. It was a lie I didn't know I was telling, but I was a lying bastard and I sure as hell was telling it to myself, and myself was TOTALLY falling for it. I'm so gullible.

I should mention at this point that I like to drink. I'm not picky about what I drink either - equal opportunity consumption is something I support (in fact, I might have donated to a PAC advocating it, I'm not sure... I was probably drunk at the time...) I'm not an alcoholic (I can stop anytime I want. No, really. I can. Just let me finish this drink...) but I do thank my lucky stars that alcohol exists and is a part of my life.

I didn't realize I was a lying bastard until about 2 weeks into the job- after a particularly grueling day. It was late, I was tired of work, tired of my colleagues, and I wanted a drink. Only, there was no place to go. No divey shack with a patio. No 30 x 10 cinder block building with one window with a Bud Light neon sign in it and 6 stools. Nothing. Nada. I think I might have cried a little bit that night.

As the time passed I tried to understand just how people went through life here. Bars are essential to society- most importantly, they provide the post-industrialized nation with the highest stress levels in the universe with it's most important relaxation aid- booze. It's definitely (with a few exceptions) bad form to drink at home alone, but drinking alone in public is a national past-time. Alcohol is the third most profitable American market behind oil and porn (I just made that figure up, but it sounds pretty true to me).

Equally of note, however, bars are social places. They are where people meet- new people, friends, hook ups, whatever. You can go to a bar that you've never been to, and suddenly, you're not alone. You have something in common with the person next to you- and that is, you want a drink. Instant friendship.

And now that I think about it, sitting in my room drinking a beer (yes, alone- blogging is a TOTALLY acceptable excuse for drinking by one's self) there's another equally important function of bars. They are escapes. They are places of refuge- from work, from bills, from living situations that make you crazy, from the people that you see every. single. day. They are respites. 'Come unto me and drink' they say. 'I am the fount of booze- you who drink of me shall get buzzed and love the world a little more than you did 30 minutes ago.'

And let's be honest, who doesn't want that?