the flame

it’s tuesday night and we’re gonna go out dancing, but first, the pregame. we roll up to the corner of 16th and v on our bikes, the giant red arrow overhead pointing to our destination: flame club. its neon letters are lit up like christmas, casting a glow across the sidewalk. on any given night, one or more of the letters are burnt out, resulting in some variation on the name: fame club, flam cub, fam club. but tonight, it’s just flame club. 

we make our way around back, through the dirt parking lot to the entrance. lock up our bikes, pull out our ids, doublecheck to make sure we brought cash. some would call this place a hole in the wall, a dive bar, a coffin even. with no windows and no flair, flame isn’t unassuming; it’s a step below, whatever you’d call that. an ugly brick shoebox, but it’s our ugly brick shoebox. 

it’s stuffy inside but the ceiling fans are going, and there’s a game on the tv. jane’s working tonight, and it’s just as well because she knows our orders, and she makes them stiff. we’d like to think it’s because we’re good tippers, but the truth is every bartender in this joint has got a heavy hand. 

we’re not the first people in the room, but we’re close. we sidle up to the bar. jane unceremoniously lays two white napkins down on the walnut laminate, places a glass on each one, and starts to pour. we pay and grab them, then turn to the back of the room. it’s empty enough that we can claim the shuffleboard, and that’s why we really came here, drinks excepted. the bar has been around since 1953, and i wouldn’t be surprised if the shuffleboard table dates back to then. it’s worn and slanted and we’ve played so much we know exactly where the grooves run, how to angle the pucks and propel them just so. 

we play enough half rounds to get that nice warm fuzzy feeling inside, which is to say two greyhounds each, and we’re set. that’s not to say we’re lightweights either; remember, they make ‘em strong here. altogether that puts us back 6,50 each, including tip. 

brian goes outside to smoke a cigarette, and while i wait, i order a couple tacos for each of us. i heard they serve lunch, but i don’t know, i don’t trust it. but for some reason i trust the $1 tacos on the secret menu that seem to appear out of nowhere on tuesday evenings. and we know we’ve gotta make it the 12 or so blocks to old i for lipstick, and better if not on empty stomachs, so we scarf them down without too many questions. 

by now the tables, all six of them, are beginning to fill up with a different kind of crowd, one that’s a little more unpredictable, so we take that as our cue. we throw one last song on the jukebox, and then we’re off, disappearing into the midtown grid.

Natalye Childress (https://www.natalye.com) (she/her) is a Berlin-based editor, writer, translator, and sad punk. Her poetry has been nominated for Best of the Net and the Pushcart and appears or is forthcoming in Querencia Press, Frozen Sea, JAKE, wildness, Anthropocene, and elsewhere.