you ever wonder what college towns are like when the kids are gone?

It’s early in the evening still, by bar standards when I run across the street to go into McBar to meet my friend H for her birthday. We haven’t seen each other in a long time and our old friend group had a big break up a long time ago and I knew this year’s party would be more subdued and probably involve less drinking, less screaming laughter and less boob grabbing.

No matter H is one of the few genuine people I know around here. She’s an EMT and so because she’s always at school or always at work I rarely see her. So when she asked me to spend her birthday with her for a drink I said yes without consulting my bank account.

I push open the double doors to the bar. McBar used to be in another location, more of a dive bar. The same dive bar where I met my fabled ex Mr Dbag. It used to be a collection of malcontents and the heavily tattooed sitting next to the oldest grizzled alcoholics that you can find in a town like this one. It used to also smell and only hold about 50 people comfortably.

Last year sometime the city shut it down to do a renovation on the building and put in a Peets Coffee and Tea. McBar like the cockroach it is moved down the street, famous neon sign blaring away like it had never shut off. Inside you see the differences. It’s bigger for one, so many chairs and booths inside. Internet jukebox replacing the one we used to be able to punch for free songs ala the Fonz, flat screen televisions and clean bathrooms, a smoking patio, extra long bar… It all sounds like an improvement but it’s not.

Because McBar is now “safe,” and by “safe” I don’t mean safe for a girl with pink hair to sit and have a drink alone but safe like soccer moms and the college girls with words on the ass of their shorts now hang out in there with alarming regularity. Mostly because it’s large enough now that the various cranky tattooed door guys can’t keep them out because it’s “full,” while waving regulars on inside.

I go and order a drink. Both bartenders on duty are from the old bar and remember me. We wish each other a happy holiday and I’m given a screwdriver that could take paint off of a wall. Since I’m waiting for people and getting the eye up from another regular who has hit on myself and my old roommate in the past with little success, I find a corner of the side bar that lines the wall to sit at and sip my drink waiting for H.

The new Safe McBar is full of some of the soccer moms that usually wouldn’t come in before. They appear to be having a reunion by the jukebox. From their loud shrieks I gather the one in the least hideous jeans and the navy sweatshirt has just joined the Suburban Mom team and is visiting from out of town. The other two, one in some serious 1980s Mom Jeans and a flowered sweater, the other in an outfit a Jehovah’s Witness would find confining. Baggy gray turtleneck under a downcoat over a long holiday print skirt and snowboots.

I glance down at my own black dress and creepers and wonder why she’s so cold. It’s easily 65 degrees outside and inside the heater is blasting, making even my long sleeved dress feel too warm. I take another sip of my bucket of gasoline and continue to look around. Regular Guy is still staring at me from the corner of the main bar and tips his Yankees cap to me. (Yet another reason I will never go home with him, other than the obvious.)

The soccer moms are still shrieking about Navy Sweatshirt’s amazing morgage deal and how Flowered Skirt’s kids did something at school while they drink light beer. When I arrived at the bar the jukebox was blasting the usual fare; Misfits, Al Green, Tom Waits, a little Bowie followed up by some Iron Maiden. Things got ugly after the Iron Maiden.

80’s swirling cheese guitars started blaring through the speakers. I was pretty sure it was Winger or something because I had no idea what it was.  I cringed, expecting Journey to follow it but no… I got a marathon of Lionel Richie. “All Night Long,” followed by a ballad. The soccer moms squealed and high fived each other. I expected Flowered Skirt to yell out “This is my jam!” because they totally started bopping along. By now I have my cell phone in my hand and I’m shaking it, hoping it will make my friends appear.

No. Instead I get another block of bad when Richard Marx starts up. Mom Jeans squeals this time and even says something like “this guy is hot!” pointing at the jukebox. I am suddenly very glad for my glass of gasoline and take a big slug and look at my phone again.

Finally H shows up and she hears the music and says “Oh my god, how long has it been like this?”

“Too long” I say tugging her towards the bar. Regular Guy tips his hat to me again and I think about taking it off and beating him with it, since he obviously doesn’t remember the time he PASSED OUT IN THE MIDDLE OF ORDERING ME A DRINK. After we get H fixed up with a pint she gestures at the smoking patio, where we retreat.

It might have been a little cold outside, but at least it was quiet.