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    Eat & Swig

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    When you’re 18, you learn how to party the college way: in crowded fraternity houses and messy dorm rooms. When you’re 21, you learn how to party the adult way: in public, at relaxed bars and busy nightclubs. And when you’re 23, you learn how easy it is to forget what you've been taught.

    This is a true story about how easy it is to get kicked out of Nowhere Bar.

    It was a warm Saturday evening when a group of friends and I decided to get dressed up and celebrate life with few drinks in the Highlands. My friends were on their way to my apartment to park their cars for free on my street before using a cab as our designated driver. 

    I sipped my second glass of white wine as I stood in front of my small Old Louisville closet and contemplated an outfit. A dress? Jeans with a chiffon top, perhaps? Then I saw it, the floral romper I purchased the week before and had not yet worn. Normally I wouldn’t attempt to present myself in any form of one-piece pant suit, but this romper was different. Its yellow and orange pattern flattered my body perfectly, graciously offering a slimming appearance with a drawstring waist and buttons up the front. I threw back the last sip of my wine and slipped the romper on right as my doorbell rang.

    My friends crowded inside my apartment and I poured them each a glass of wine as we waited for our cab driver to arrive. On my third glass of wine, I was beginning to realize just how snug the romper felt as it hugged my hips. But before I had the opportunity to change, the cab arrived and in the early stages of my drunkenness, I forgot all about the tight fabric and set out for the night with my friends.

    The cab drove us to the very popular and crowded Nowhere Bar, the place where everyone in Louisville goes to dance and anything can happen.


    Image: Life of the Party Entertainment 

    As we stepped into the line at the door, I felt the sudden rush of wine through my body and had to use the bathroom, fast. Any woman who has indulged in three glasses of wine within an hour knows the exact feeling I’m referring to. I had no choice but to break the seal, ASAP.

    The imposing security guard glowered as he checked my ID at the door and directed me into the bar. And once inside, I huddled my group of friends into a circle and expressed my urgent need for a bathroom. “I have to go too,” one of my friends announced. “I’ll go with you.” She grabbed my hand and guided me to the bathroom in the back of the club as we weaved through the dense crowd of drunken dancers while the others in our group scurried to the crowded bar to place their drink orders.

    We opened the door to the dimly lit, foggy bathroom and were immediately greeted by the friendly attendant. “Hi, girls! We have two stalls open right here,” she kindly said with a smile as she pointed to the row of stalls.

    I looked at my friend with the troubling realization that I wasn’t sure if I could take my romper off by myself. I needed a friend’s help to pull the sleeves as I pulled the delicate fabric from my hips. “Will you go with me? I don’t think I can take this thing off alone,” I admitted as I pointed to the waistband of my outfit. And being the support friend that she is, she agreed and followed me into the large handicap stall.

    As soon as we shut the stall door, we heard the once friendly voice of the restroom attendant drastically change to a low-pitched bellow, “One person per stall!”

    Even in my drunken mindset, I knew this was a small misunderstanding. I opened the stall door and explained my situation to the worker. “I’m sorry but I’m wearing this romper and it’s too tight to take off by myself. My friend is just going to help me for one minute.”

    “Absolutely not!” she shrieked. But I couldn’t wait any longer. I needed to relieve my bladder at that moment, so I shut the door once again and proceeded to unbutton my romper. My friend pulled my sleeves off as I wiggled my way out of the tight ensemble and I was finally free to seek the relief I so desperately needed.

    Just then, we heard loud knocking on the stall door. My friend held her index finger above the door to represent the universal symbol for “one moment, please” as I finished my business. I was easily able to dress myself again and I flushed the toilet before someone outside of our stall somehow popped open the door and grabbed my friend’s arm in a tight, menacing grip.

    It was the muscle-bound guard from Nowhere Bar’s front door accompanied by another even bigger member of security. “Time to go!” they shouted. I stumbled out of the stall behind my friend, and guard #2 grabbed me and pulled me ferociously out of the bathroom and into the crowd of gyrating hipsters.

    I relentlessly and drunkenly protested, “We didn’t do anything wrong! My romper is just too tight!" as the guard's hand clamped around my arm like a vice. He marched me through the flashing lights, the chaos, the sloshing drinks. There was a new security guard seated at the bar’s front door and he quickly opened it as he saw us approaching.

    We were then, literally, tossed out of Nowhere Bar without the chance to explain ourselves.

    Our other friends witnessed us being escorted off the premises, and in shock, followed us out. “What happened!” they all asked.

    “I just really should not have worn this romper,” I admitted in defeat. 

     


    Image: Will Tower

    Cover image: Nowhere Bar

    Carly Garcia's picture

    About Carly Garcia

    Lover of vegetarian cuisine, Stephen King, puppies, camping and wine...lots of wine.

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