On the Road Again

We wend our way through the barely lit and poorly signed streets of the desert terrain in search of the elusive bar. Elusive because it is rumored to be a coveted hang out, off the road, not marked by a sign, known only to locals and therefore sure to be an exclusive crowd. We are meeting some of the folks we’ve gotten to know there. It should be loads of fun.

Or not.

The last time I was here I was planning to marry J. Had big plans. Had the world by the ass.

What a difference a year makes. And now that all of that has been tossed into a blender and scrambled so as to be unrecognizable, I would likely have some explaining to do. I am sure all our friends will be asking about the wedding and all that. If only out of politeness.

But Joy assures me that Priscilla has filled everyone in on that particularly disastrous topic and I will not be dragged to my frowny place by some well intentioned person who inquired brightly about what my dress looked like. Again if only out of politeness.

After several ill-fated treks across uneven sandlots in pursuit of the bar known to have pit fires and dancing, (which, with abundant availability of beer might not actually be such a hot idea…) we finally pull our overcrowded, now filthy rental into the lot of the bar.

And within minutes, our friends have arrived. Everyone is greeted warmly or introduced and then greeted warmly. We are our own instant party.

Beers are ordered and we start to break into small conversational groups and drift in different directions. It’s been a long year and we have catching up to do. I am in a group that takes seats on the wooden tables that extend like bicycle spokes from the dance floor. Those who were once Boy Scouts get the pit fires lit. There is a man playing Johnny Cash on stage. All is right with the world.

But the Krotchfelts, who are meeting most of the crowd for the first time tonight are not jazzed by the assortment of people on hand. To be honest, there were only maybe two other people at the place (on a Thursday night!) and I am not even sure they were not employees.

They want to find a crowd to wow and there isn’t enough of a mob to get a real scene going. They get a suggestion from someone outside the group. We should go to Tahiti Tom’s. They are enthusiastically endorsing the idea to everyone in small groups.

They get to my table. I am seated with Alejandro. He turns to me once Taffy has left and says “Ever hear of the place?”

Hear of it? Better than that, I’ve been there. To see some of our other friends whose band has played there. The band having been the only thing that redeemed the place. Tahiti Tom’s being a franchise in a strip mall with a dorky tropical theme and uninteresting beer selection.

Alejandro whispers in a few ears that he is happy to stay where he is, and believes there are others that are too. And that the place is rumored to suck.

The Krotchfelts begin to whine that they forgot to eat all day and are starved.

Really? Unless you sustained a head injury earlier in the day, who forgets to eat? I offer very brightly that the bar serves hot dogs. A dog and some Cheetos would suffice.

No, they want real food.

Alejandro, the organizer, offers that the people that are suffering from low blood sugar can take a car full of people to Tahitis or wherever and the rest of us will stay and enjoy the cool place we’d come to in the first place before everyone became conveniently undernourished.

There is much back and forth discussion. I have made my opinion clear. I would rather be burned at the stake than have to go to Tahiti Toms. I am assured by Alejandro that if it sucks, we’ll scramble and find a better venue.

In the end, we all decide to go. The Krotchfelts have secured directions and will lead the way. I take a seat in the other car.