Callie was the ultimate conundrum: a conservative Republican with a mad crush on Dan Quayle, who once auditioned at an off-ramp titty bar. She was a book smart eternal hipster who was my best friend from home. She also already lived in D.C. It just made sense I should live with her the summer before my internship started.
Usually, we went to a “kiddie bar,” one known for being lenient on carding. Kiddie bars are inevitably lame and full of uninteresting people. If you do meet someone over 21, you run. Unless you want to spend the evening discussing the fundamental, yet obscure, differences between Go-Bots, Transformers, G-Force, Power Rangers and Voltron. And probably pay for your own drinks.
One night while trying to find the restroom with the shortest line at our most-frequented kiddie bar, Lulu’s Club Mardi Gras, I stumbled across a room usually reserved for private parties. There were several unattended kegs, and I thought what the heck? Underage, I was breaking the law already…
This place was so poorly run, except for the first drink we paid for to get the glass, we poured our own for free from that room. That was until we got lazy. We took our nirvana for granted, and like all good secrets decided it was too good to keep to ourselves.
We started showing cute boys our trick, then ugly guys, and then for no good reason, other girls. It was like the movie Cocoon where once the secret was out, we couldn’t trust anyone. These desperate sickly souls stole our lifeblood.
An employee of the bar and I doubt it was management, noticed the nightly and growing crowds in the private room. The next night they had a bartender there to pour; accepting credit cards and putting out a tip jar. We should have been paid and not punished for our ingenuity!
Guess it serves us right for being Cocoon life suckers.