Among the Angels

The bass pounds in my chest with a rhythm that curls my very backbone. I’m nodding my head in time, bouncing on the balls of my feet. This is my kind of place -- loud, raucous, obnoxious. The tattooed outnumber the tattooless. The bartender wears a necktie over his sleeveless white tee shirt, coal black eyeliner rims his red eyes. The waitress is wearing a Catholic schoolgirl uniform with fishnet stockings and combat boots. With my black hair – streaked with blonde – freckles and ample cleavage, I’m a foundling rescued from the woods.

My two friends follow me around the bar, looking for an unobtrusive position to observe the nightlife. A milieu of boys mill around, making comments in our ears and moving away after a lackluster reception. We’re here to observe, drink and soak up a rare girl’s night out.

A preppy type leans in to ask my friend a question. I see her shake her blonde head no. He squishes up his nose and moves away.

My turn to lean in.

“He just asked me if I farted,” she yelled.

“Oh my God, that is so rude,” I yelled back.

“Yeah! I told him I didn’t. But actually, I did!”

The sound of our howling laughter was lost in the masses.