The Smoky Gentleman's Bar

When you start living in your very own apartment with your very own rent to pay, you quickly come to the startling realization that the internet, gas, electricity and other living necessities are not in fact free. I’m not sure why I never realized this, but it probably has something to do with the fact that I am a spoiled brat. The very worst part about these new responsibilities is the fact that each one of them must be mailed. With an envelope and stamp and everything. There was a time when mailing things were fun. Writing to pen pals and licking the weird sticky stuff closed. But now it is just another reason why I have to get out of my bed and leave the house. Which I hate.




In my household, I was in charge of paying the bill for our internet. And in true Emma fashion I waited until I got a two weeks notice telling me that if I didn’t pay the bill within the next two weeks, my internet would be shut off. It was at this point that I began to become somewhat concerned. Not concerned enough to mail it right away, but concerned enough that I would maybe at least think about mailing it if the opportunity arises. The opportunity did not arise and I promptly forgot about the crumpled up bill stuck to the bottom of my purse.




Of course it all came flooding back to me after class on the last day of the two week notice warning. The time for fooling around had come to an end and I scurried around campus trying to find a mailbox. Which I could not find, despite the fact that in my Senior year I have now spotted not one but three mailboxes in the school’s immediate vicinity. My only answer as to why I couldn’t find one then is because I must have been blind with panic or I’m just an idiot. It is most likely the latter.



So I ran up to a friend in the cafeteria minding her own business and frantically asked for the closest post office location which was luckily just down the street from my school. Now, I walked down this street that the aforementioned post office was apparently located and could not find a single sign that any post office had ever been there. I looked everywhere! There was one building I kept passing by that I then assumed, in my desperation, must be the post office. It was a squat, run down brick building with dusty, boarded up windows and a large sign that was just a bunch of numbers. But far be it from me to judge a post office on its outer appearance. So I approached the large, thick rusty green doors and found them to be locked shut. Which made no sense seeing as all post offices should have been open at the time. It was then that I noticed a small black box off to the side of the door with a button that I then pressed, assuming that I had to be buzzed in to get through. It was at this point I probably should have realized that there are no post offices in America that you need to be buzzed into. But as I mentioned before, I am an idiot.




About a minute later the rusted box unleashed a demon-like screech, signifying that I could now go in, which I did, because did I mention that I am an idiot? Upon opening the creaky doors, there are a set of stairs with moldy-green carpeting, which I suspect did not start out green. The further I crept down the stairs, crumpled bill in hand, the air around me got smokier and more stagnant and I still suspected that nothing was wrong. I just thought that this was a very unconventional post office. I was like, way to go post office, breaking the social norms, good for you.




After walking down about six flights of stairs, I ended up in some sort of bar that was inhabited by a bunch of very overweight, very old white men, smoking cigars and drinking whiskey. It was at this point that I became slightly wary about my certainty that this was a post office. But still, I was not completely convinced. Maybe this was some sort of post office with a bar or something. And if so, it was about damn time, amiright? As I peered into the room where lofty business ideas and good father/son relationships go to die, the bartender came up to me and asked in a very thick Boston accent, “What do ya need, sweethaht?” Then, in a very confused, very pathetic voice I asked, “Is this the post office?” To which he replied, “Yeah, what do ya need mailed?” Now, this answer confused me because at this point the ratio of surety about this not being the post office had definitely shifted towards the “this is probably not the post office” side. So I was all like, “really?” And then he looked at me like he was confused and slightly impressed that I was even able to make it down the stairs without killing myself because I am obviously that stupid. Apparently he was being sarcastic, which was totally unfair because I was vulnerable and very gullible and hasn’t anyone ever told him that you shouldn’t lie to innocent girls about the state of their bar/post office situation? Then he gave me a very firm, “No.” Then I left.




I never did find the post office that day. My bill was eventually mailed thanks to me going to my parent’s house for the weekend and “accidentally” leaving it there so they had no choice but to mail it for me.




Apparently the post office I was looking for was located inside of an apartment complex, which I found out about two weeks later. And the post office sign was being hidden by a giant, stupid tree, which is why I couldn’t find it. You win again, Mother Nature, you vindictive bitch.






(UPDATE: My roommates have corrected me on the fact that I was not in a “Smoky Gentleman’s Bar” as there is no such thing and also we do not live in a Fred Astaire movie, but rather I was in a “Veteran’s Bar.” A what? Are they saying that veterans get their own bars? Are people that didn’t fight in wars not allowed in? Are the bars war specific? Like, there’s one bar for the Vietnam war veterans and one probably less crowded bar across the street for WW2 veterans? I mean sure, they’re heroes or whatever but why do they get their own bar? Why don’t I, a privileged middle class white girl, get her own bar? I have to deal with periods on a monthly basis, shouldn’t I at least get like, a corner of a bar or something? Maybe a VIP booth at Chuckee Cheese? I mean, I highly doubt that even one of those men in that “Veteran’s Bar” had ever menstruated in their entire life. Totally unfair.)