The Knotty Pine

The entrance to The Knotty Pine evades. You must search for it, having found the other bar in town to be closed. The Knotty Pine is nobody’s first choice. It’s an orange sign pasted onto another sign on a peeling wall on the side of a weary building. Beaten down Harleys wait outside for their masters. As you approach the threshold, you hang back and let the rest of the group go in first. Ahead, you hear a smoker’s voice merrily counting the women as they enter. One, two, three, four! Look at that, boys! On a Tuesday night!

You glance back across the road at the strip of woods leading back to the camp, wondering whether to risk a walk back alone. You decide not. As it turns out, your fear of the dark is stronger than your offended sensibility. You go in and creep to the end of the bar, by the mirror that somebody hung to expand the room. You hunch your shoulders and crouch down into the mess of students around you. Invisible, you talk to a square blonde girl while keeping track of the grizzled men at the far end of the bar. You order a water.