The Night From Hell

Green Light by John Legend is playing and I am in Hell. There is no other explanation. This bar is Hell, this town is Hell, that stupid fluorescent goddamn jukebox is definitely a demonic entity from Hell designed to torture unsuspecting good people with catchy pop hits from the mid-2000s. I have to be right about this. There is no other explanation.

I plop down on the cracked vinyl barstool, drop my face into my hands and scream.

“Whatcha havin’?”

I squint menacingly at Pat and let it loose. “None of it, that’s what! I am having none of it, Pat! Not anymore! You let me out of this stupid magic hellhole now!”

His eyes widen and I know exactly what he’s going to say. Mentally mouth it along with him. “We meet before?”

I scream into my palms again. Hell. I am in Hell. There is no other explanation.

“Only about 500 times, Pat, and I am sick and I am tired of your stupid face and your stupid catchphrases!”

“What catchphrases?” We both say.

“How’d you know—” We both start.

“Okay, lady, that’s freaky—stop that!” We both yell.

Pat is agog. I watch a shiver run through him as he turns his head away and tries to get his bearings. It’s no use. His bearings, my bearings, they’re all scattered across the sticky bar floor, along with three shriveled lime wedges and six twisted cocktail straws. I know it’s rude to pick on Pat, who is generally kind, if albeit slow on the uptake, but it isn’t like any of it matters. Being polite is soo 487 Green Light by John Legends ago.

I steal Caroline’s peachy margarita and go to nurse my frustrations in my favorite booth. It’s the one that’s as physically far from the jukebox as possible, kitty-corner to the exit. If I turn my head just right I can almost not quite sort of not even see it kind of. Sure, the jukebox is only made to look retro and is actually connected to speakers that pipe the dreaded music all over the bar, but it makes me feel better to pretend that it’s slightly quieter over here.

“Hey, where’d my drink go?” Caroline pouts, returning from the bathroom.

I don’t bother to look over to her. I know how this plays out. Know exactly what to say to make sure I am not kicked out or I am kicked out or I am bosom buddies with Caroline or my hair is yanked by Caroline or, and this one is rare, I am accidentally scratched in the eye by Caroline and given an extra cold beer in atonement. Gosh. I have been here for so depressingly long.

It was bad enough that I had to come here in the first place. My mom was on Husband #6 – possibly #7, it was hard to keep track – and after I conveniently misplaced the invitation for her wedding to Victor, Husband #5 (or #6), Mom added “weekly check-ins with Thea” to her wedding pre-checklist. There was no way I was getting out of wearing another ugly bridesmaid’s gown. Except this time was worse, obviously. Because not only did I have to come here again and watch my mother pretend at forever again, but when I made my less-than-graceful exit from the Stardew Hotel Ballroom and found my way to the nearest bar I seemed to have fallen into some cosmic idea of a joke. Or Hell. Definitely Hell. Once I walked into The Buzz Bar I discovered, rather unfortunately, that I couldn’t walk back out.

The first night I thought it was a dream. It seems like a cliché but it’s true. The first time, the third time, all the way to the eighth or ninth time, you convince yourself that you must be dreaming. That first time: I walked in, all rustling pink tulle and seething drama, got a bit sloshy, cried to Wary Bartender Patrick, tried to seduce Sorta Cute Bartender Patrick, and then snored my way into oblivion on a barstool. Then I woke up. And I was standing by the entrance, rustling away, Green Light by John Legend jangling tinny out of the bar-room speakers like when I first entered hours ago. So. You know. I thought I was dreaming. Tried to walk back out. Got insanely dizzy and found myself inside the entrance, swishy dress, Green Light, repeat. When I tried to stick it out, explore my surroundings, midnight would roll over and there I was, in the doorway again and again. And then it became clear. I was trapped in The Buzz Bar for possibly all eternity, with no idea why, how, or any of the other interrogative words for that matter.

It sucks.

“Hey, what’s your problem, huh?” Caroline’s shrill voice lands at my table. I look up at her, so very bored of our game. Caroline’s hands are pitched angrily on her hips, her blonde hair somehow still gleaming under the dim bar light. There is no use in any of the things I can think of to say. I’ve thought of them all before. But I know that staying silent triggers one of three eventualities that Caroline will attack me – I believe that she has hidden anger management issues but I am not a doctor, so who’s to say, really. When I ask, that triggers the accidental eye scratch and I really hate that one – so I hold up a finger and down her peachy marg. The sweet alcohol burns my throat but makes my head feel light within seconds.

I stand and shuffle past her. “Hi, Caroline. Don’t ask. It will all become clear.”

She huffs out an indignant sound. I spin out of the way of Bo’s cue stick as it rears back, sidestep lovestruck Helene and Mark right before they collide into me and duck under Willow’s tray of fresh-out-of-the-fryer, will-literally-burn-my-boob-skin-off-when-they-fall hot wings and make it to the front door.

“Hey, you owe me a drink!” Caroline shouts after me.

“Let’s just pretend it never happened.” I yell back.

Then I step through the doorway.

___*___

“Give me the green liiiiiiight, give me just one niiiiiight. I’m ready to go right now. I’m ready to go right now.”

My sigh is deep and long-suffering. “You and me both, John. You and me both.”

I crinkle my way across the room to the bar and plunk my tulle-covered ass on the vinyl. Pat looks over at me like he does, one eyebrow raised in question at my ugly attire but forever too polite to ask.

“Whatcha havin’?”

I stifle a scream and look up at Pat miserably.

“Pat, do me a favor. Don’t ask how I know your name. Just accept that I do.”

His mouth is agape, and his brows are starting to do that wiggly wonky thing they do when I am especially weird. But Pat, to his credit, pulls it together. He always pulls it together, which I admire in an unwilling time loop companion.

“Okay, so. Say you’re in a Groundhog’s Day scenario—”

“Groundhog’s Day? Like that movie with—”

“—with the groundhog, right,” I interrupt. “Say that’s happening right now to me. And say I’ve already asked you this like a hundred times. And that you’ve given me all the stupid advice already. Go outside, ride it out, become a better person, apologize to my mom, stop stealing Caroline’s peachy marg, you know, the usual get-out-of-Hell-free shit that people do in this situation. Say we’ve talked about this a hundred times and you have no more surprises left to surprise me with. How, Pat, tell me how would I make this nightmare night in The Buzz Bar end? Please. Surprise me anyway.”

Those brows, they wiggle and they wonkle. The novelty of them has worn off. He takes six stilted breaths, scratches the back of his neck, and studies me.

Caroline comes back from the bathroom and scoops up her drink, looking at me and my pink dress in distaste before moving off to sit in a far-off booth. I'm pleased. The nights that I don’t directly interact with Caroline are always slightly less dramatic.

“I’m assuming,” Patrick starts slowly, and I stifle a groan. “that in this alternative universe, I’ve already suggested that you’re a crazy person. And mentioned the kitchen side exit.”

I stiffen. “Obviously. Think I didn’t try the side exit? I’m not a complete dope, Pat.” He frowns and opens his mouth. “Yes, yes, I know you prefer Patrick but look, I have known you for over a year and I cannot possibly be bothered with formality at this point, okay? Not tonight. And please be original. You’ve said all this like sixty times.”

Pat reaches into the fridge and plunks a light beer in front of me. I take a small swig in gratitude.

“Why are you asking me?”

“Stop fishing for compliments, Pat. I have explained many times that I like you best.”

He laughs, but the sound is a bit deranged, his eyes and face muscles all doing a bit of a panic dance with each other. I understand. It's all a lot to take in on the first go.

“There’s a thing to apologize to your mom for?” he tries valiantly.

“Unimportant.”

“You mentioned it.”

“So that you wouldn’t.” I take another mouthful and the clink of my can against the bar is too loud. “Look, I’ve called her, okay. She doesn’t answer. It’s her wedding day, she’s not exactly glued to her iPhone right now. I left my cellphone in my car, which I can’t get to because I’m stuck in Hell and when I leave a voicemail from your phone, I don't hear back from her before midnight, which is when the night starts over again. It was shitty. I know it was shitty to walk out, but I can’t take it back. I have tried to take it back. If I start yelling to God or Buddha or Mother Earth or whoever right now about how I swear to walk out that door and back into my mother’s wedding and love her endlessly until the day I die, Willow’s gonna spill Carl’s hot wings, Caroline’s gonna clutch her fancy statement necklace in horror, and I’m gonna walk out that door and right back into this room with everything exactly the same forever.”

The side door that leads to the kitchen swings open and out springs Willow, hot wings on a tray. Pat’s eyes zero in on this and he braces his hands on the bar to steady himself, slowly shaking his head.

“Have you tried believing it? That you’re really sorry and you love your mom?” he tries again.

I narrow my eyes and flip him the bird. “Please kindly fuck off, Patrick.” I turn to make my way to the door. I prefer a less annoying version of Pat, thank you.

He laughs at my middle finger or at my swear or at my use of his full name, or at some combination of all three. It is really quite a nice laugh. There's a singular string of events that trigger a drunken make-out with Pat in the supply closet but I try not to remember. For one, it felt a bit too skeazy having to see him every night for ten months after. Plus he never remembers my name. That’s a no-brainer as to why, but still. I’ve gotta have some standards.

“Look,” he calls out after me. “I still think you’re crazy. But, I guess, if you’re asking me to surprise you, and I have no idea what I’ve ever said to you in this fictional night loop, then I think I would say that. Try harder.”

I roll my eyes. Love Is The Answer Pat is my least favorite Pat. “Barf. Thanks for nothing, see ya soon.”

I wave as I walk out the door.