Parking in Houston is a hassle. On nights like these you wish teleporting was possible to avoid the disappointment a full parking lot shoves on you. The crooked path is always littered with chewed gum that hardened and is now permanently part of the concrete. You trip over the same broken side walk while making your way to its guarded archway.  Doors open and inviting, it wouldn’t turn you away. The magenta paint that coated the outside is chipped and the remains of flyers that were plastered on the sides still leave their mark, like a stubborn barcode sticker you can’t seem to remove from the side of your favorite cup.

Greeted by red walls, mounted paintings, neon signs flashing, cocktails, and your choice of poison, you’re still able to notice that the concrete floor was stripped of tiles. I imagined it once as a checkerboard. But these individual squares of adhesive prance around the floor and only adds to the scheme of things. It resembles an old hopscotch court that is hugged by a wall of pinball machines you can’t avoid. The lights blare and the sound the ball makes as you send the numbers spinning keeps you in place quarters in hand. You eventually give up and grow tired of standing. Chairs and tables are always taken, once you vacate it, it is lost. The narrowness makes you a tad dizzy and when it’s packed you have to crawl your way through the crowds, almost sitting on a couple of laps just to get to the end.  Smoke cheats its way in through the back door. And you escape, only to walk into clouds of it upon stepping on to the patio.  A few chairs are scattered, spread around the small yard but they add more when the time calls for it. Still, that doesn’t guarantee you a spot. Nothing is a guarantee except for a night of intrigue and good company.

-KMV-