on our way to notsuoh to study, we take what we decide will be a short detour and go for a drink. la carafe, the oldest bar in houston, is tiny and cramped and dark inside, the wooden bar top and tables barely visible in dim circles of candlelight. dozens of dusty paintings huddle close to one another on dark yellow walls. the dripping wax wears a mardi gras mask. the jukebox glows out of place.
through two glasses of red wine each, we listen to van morrison and watch people drift in and float out again. nobody stays for very long–the couple giggling at one of the tables leaves when their pitcher is empty, the two women sitting just down the bar from us stay for only twenty minutes. with my index finger i trace the letters carved deeply into the bar top. i can’t figure out what EBBH means. three separate people attempt to sell us flowers–carnations, then roses, then some unidentifiable pink. all three leave the bar without making a sale, muttering as they slide out the door and onto the street. eventually, we slide out as well.
above the bar next door to notsuoh is a giant neon display which reads “HOME OF EASY CREDIT!”. since we’ve walked past it many times but never seen the inside, we decide to go in and have one more drink before studying. dean’s credit clothing is just as dark as la carafe but much bigger, with candles underneath and on top of the tables, dim lamps overhead, and a massive fashion-show projection high up near the ceiling. the booths and tables that line the walls look like open closets, the hanging garments pushed to the sides to expose particleboard seats underneath. a smattering of blouses and suits hang from bare brick walls.
we sit in our closetbooth between two vintage dresses as i sip my third glass of wine, watching groups of people come in and jockey for position at the bar and with one another. the bartender is picky with his music–halfway through one track on a cd, he skips to the next track, listens, and then skips again. the giant fashion show concludes unaffected in my periphery, with closing credits superimposed on runway models, followed by a bluescreen. as i walk past the projection to the restroom, i notice that the corner of the bluescreen reads “perfecting image. please wait…” i stop and stare for several minutes before going into the restroom. when i emerge, you look small and dark, at the far end of the room, hunched over in the candleglow at the table, very far away. i am drunk.
we never make it to notsuoh. instead of studying, i go home and eat pizza in front of the computer.
perfecting image. please wait.
