Big Man stood 6 feet tall. I don't, by about six inches. And this guy's shoulders probably wouldn't fit through the doorway of my apartment.
I could not see over or around him. For some reason, his drink order took forever. Was there a problem with his plastic? Did he order a dozen mojitos? I couldn't tell — or do anything to expedite things. So, I hunkered down in a sea of asses and elbows and observed my surroundings. Actually, my surroundings were unavoidable — especially the chatter. I would have needed tarmac-worthy earplugs to miss the voices buzzing around my far-too-sober brain.
"They're not even one-tenth as nice there," she shrieked. "Like, they just might be the meanest people in the whole universe, I swear."
The blonde with the loud, shrill voice and Valley Girl vocabulary shouted at the brunette in front of her. "It's like everybody there is just there to talk about everybody else behind their backs, you know?" Both women appeared to be in their late 20s and sipped from matching bottles of Michelob Ultra Lights. Their conversation took place several inches from my ear last Saturday as I waited way too long for a beverage. Or maybe that's just how one must roll at The Rack. After all, when I arrived around midnight at the swank, sushi-serving pool hall, the place was packed.
"I'm a waiter at one of the nicest restaurants in town," announced the dude in the canary yellow polo. The woman in the sheer burgundy dress — who resembled Charlotte from Sex in the City — nodded. I couldn't tell if the guy was running game on her or if he knew Charlotte from work or something. "And I have women pull that shit all the time," said Yellow Shirt Dude. "And I don't fucking get it. Don't flirt with me if you have a boyfriend."
"No shit," chimed his wingman.
Charlotte nodded again. Was she impressed? It looked doubtful.
"There's just, like, no way I'm going back there and listening to what that bitch has to say," Valley Girl continued. "I mean, did you see her shoes? Who is she to say anything at all, right?"
Eavesdropping on two conversations at the same time can be problematic, but with Big Man blocking the only portal to the booze, I had no choice but to try — or else go crazy with the waiting. As it was, a third voice exploded near my ear before I got my drink.
"Holy mother of God, it's my birthday!" hollered the frat brah. He hoisted his Miller Light and his pals clanged it with their own bottles. His pals slapped his back, squeezed his neck, and then they all discussed an upcoming round of shots.
Finally, I had managed my way to the counter. But the bartender looked perplexed when I placed my order.
"A Bud?" she asked.
"Yep," I said with a sheepish smile.
I handed her a five and got back a $1.50, which I left on the bar. I wormed my way past Valley Girl, her friend and the Birthday Boy crew. I got clobbered by an accidentally swung purse (at least I think it was accidental) before I found an open table near the window. That's when it hit me. I was the only soul in the whole place not drinking a cocktail, wine or light beer. A "pool hall" with only one fellow drinking a full-flavored Bud — what the hell? Then again, the Rack's an anomaly in the billiards business. It's doubtful Minnesota Fats ever munched on a California Roll in between shots.
I peered out the window, past the crowded patio, over at Hyde Park Café. The line outside stretched for about 50 yards. A 20-year-old friend of my younger brother had called me shortly before I left my new South Tampa apartment at 11:45 p.m. She and a friend were hitting up Hyde. For a second, I considered joining her. Then I recalled my last experience at Hyde Park Café, during my fake I.D. period. A large group of friends and I waited in a line just as long as the one I witnessed last Saturday. When I got to the door a bouncer who looked like Vin Diesel clutched the sleeve of my shirt.
"I'll let you in this time," he said loud enough for every girl in line to hear. "But next time wear something a little nicer, this is a classy place."
Yep, I'm still a bit pissy about that 10 years later. I pulled myself away from the window and the bad memory. Everyone inside The Rack had on nightclub attire accept for one tall, lanky dude in a wife-beater who was kicking ass at the pool table, probably taking a lot of trust fund dollars from the young men around him. Seats were scarce, and the crowded, low-ceiling room had me feeling cornered.
I downed my beer and shuffled outside. Maybe I'll go back someday when the place is a little less crowded. And if I ever visit Hyde Park Café again, I'll make sure the price tag is hanging from my new designer shirt and that Valley Girl has pre-approved my shoes.
The Rack, 1809 W. Platt Street, Tampa (813-250-1595).
Know a good bar? Have a favorite dive? Wade Tatangelo and Bar Tab will be barhopping Tampa Bay on a regular basis. Tell him where to go at wade@cln.com.
This article appears in Feb 28 – Mar 6, 2007.