It was very late and I found myself rushing to get to theatre before curtain time. I didn't have a ticket but I was sure I would be able to get a single at the box office. The outer lobby was extremely crowded, but I made my way to the window and said to the lady, "A single for this evening, please."
I don't recall her asking me whether I wanted a cheaper seat upstairs or a better seat in the orchestra, but she handed me a ticket and I paid for it. I realized that it would be better if I visited the men's room before the performance started.
"Where is the men's room?" I asked her.
"We don't have a men's room," she answered me.
I stared at her in consternation. How could a big crowded theatre not have a men's room?
"You don't have a men's room?" I asked her loudly, my amazement registering in my voice. What was I supposed to do?
"No," she answered. "You'll have to use the one in THE HOOVER."
THE HOOVER? Where the hell was THE HOOVER? Did all these hundreds of people have to go over to THE HOOVER?
"Where is THE HOOVER?" I asked her.
"About a block over," she said. A block over? People had to go a block over simply to use the rest room? I was appalled.
"I know where it is," said a gentleman next to me, who had obviously overheard everything. "Come with me. I'll show you."
We walked out of the theatre back onto the street, then down the block, then we crossed an intersection, and on the other side of the intersection I saw a string of rundown storefronts. And over one of them in large jagged block wooden letters, was written THE HOOVER.
I thanked the man, and crossed the street. I don't think he came with me. And I don't remember even having any conversation with him as we were walking from the theatre to THE HOOVER. But now I was alone, and standing in front of the seedy looking storefront. I opened the door and entered.
Right away I saw that it was a bar. A ramshackle bar in a distressed neighborhood. And this is where they were sending people to use the men's room? It was all so unlikely.
I looked around the room and there were a dozen or more ruffian-type men, blue-collar workers, in torn crumpled blue jeans and un-ironed shirts with open half- unbuttoned fronts, showing chest fur. They were all young and most had facial hair. Moustaches or beards or both. They were all what I consider to be trailer-trash. They looked tough and they looked mean, and I looked very out of place, dressed for the theatre as I was.
They didn't seem to be paying any attention to me. They were just drinking and talking. Drinking and talking and smoking.
I looked in the far left corner beyond the bar and saw a wooden door with 'MEN'S' painted on it in red letters. I would have to pass many people to get there. Would I have to buy a drink first? I didn't know what to do. I felt really uncomfortable and a little afraid. I knew I had to use the men's room, and moved toward it trying to attract as little attention as possible.
I opened the door and looked in. It was white and shabby and thank-god empty. I crossed over and stood before a urinal, and just as I was drawing down my zipper I heard the door opening. I looked over my shoulder and it was one of the handsome rough-looking men I had seen in the other room (though they all looked very much alike). He was coming toward me, drawing down the fly on his pants. In a moment he would be standing next to me and I felt that I would want to look down at the penis he would be holding in his hand at the next urinal.
I don't remember when I have ever felt so afraid. So afraid and so excited. My throat was completely dry and I could barely breathe, and something was about to happen. And I woke up.
I had been sleeping. It had all been a strange dream. Whatever did it mean? My forehead was flushed with perspiration, and I sat up in my bed. No. No. No. I wanted to find out what was going to happen next. I wanted to be back there. Back in THE HOOVER.
Usually when you wake up you can't remember what you dreamed, but I remembered it all so clearly. The jagged wooden block letters outside the rundown storefront, spelling THE HOOVER. I would never forget that place. I wanted to go back at once. I lay down and pulled the covers up over me, but try as I might, I could not fall back to sleep.
Eventually, an hour or so later, the alarm went off and it was time for me to get dressed and go to work. I would never forget that place. THE HOOVER. But by lunchtime at the office, when I started thinking about the dream, the name of the bar was gone. I had forgotten it. How could I have forgotten it? I should have written it down, because now it was gone. I had been stupid. I felt an awful despair, because if I didn't know the name of the place, how would I ever be able to return there? And I wanted to go back there. So very, very much. Damn. Damn. Damn. Stupid. Stupid.
But then, while I was sharpening a pencil, out of nowhere it popped back into my head. THE HOOVER. The name of the bar was THE HOOVER. It had come back to me. Thank god.
Yes. That was it. It was THE HOOVER. This time I wrote it down on a small piece of paper, which I folded carefully and put next to my driver's license in my wallet. I needed to get back there. Back to THE HOOVER. I needed to experience what would happen next. I had to find it again. Somehow. Somehow.
Day's passed. Nights passed. Dreams came and disappeared without me even remembering that I had even had a dream. It was all so disappointing. More than anything I've ever wanted in my life, I wanted to be back at THE HOOVER.
Perhaps, I could find it. Perhaps I had seen it in real life, and it become implanted subconsciously in my mind. I went to the telephone book. Nothing. There was a Hoover vacuum repair store. There was a Hoover stationery store. There was a Hoover Dry Cleaners. There was Edward Hoover. There was Helen Hoover. There was P. Hoover. There was Quincy Hoover, M.D. But there was no Hoover bar or bar and grill.
I drove downtown and walked the streets. I didn't even know what theatre I had gone to in my dream. Had I ever been there? What was I going to see? Nothing, just nothing, looked like the landscape I remembered upon waking that morning.
Well. If I couldn't return to THE HOOVER, perhaps there was someplace like THE HOOVER. I explored the city. I drove into an exceedingly rundown disreputable section of town frequented by lower class laborers. One of the streets had a row of neglected looking storefronts. And one of them was a bar, but the name Maloney's was painted in red on the front window. Still, I thought I would investigate Maloney's.
I drove through an alley into the back parking lot and tried the rear door of Maloney's but it was locked. I walked back down the dark alley to the street and entered through the front entrance.
There were not too many people there. They all looked like day laborers. They were mostly overweight. Nothing like the gangly, long-haired, dangerous looking men I had seen in my dream. There were no scraggly beards. No mysterious moustaches. They were all wearing different sorts of work clothes and drinking beer. All the stools were occupied, with loud loutish type men watching the football game on television, and cheering on the Tacklers. Here, as in my dream, I felt out of place. I was wearing a business suit and a silk necktie and stood out like a sore thumb. And lord knows I had no interest in the Tacklers game.
I knew I had to order a drink. I looked around. Everyone was drinking beer out of a bottle. Some of them were playing pool in a far corner. There was a lot of smoking, despite the fact that the city has an ordinance against smoking in public places. The smell of tobacco was overpowering. I would have to send my suit to the cleaner's tomorrow.
I stepped up to the bar.
"What'll it be?" The bartender asked me.
"A scotch and soda," I said. He gave me a funny look. As if I were being oh so high and mighty. But I was not going to order a beer just to be less conspicuous. I hate beer. And I already looked out of place, so what difference did it make?
I stood there primly sipping my scotch and soda, but nobody was really paying very much attention to me. Actually that was comforting to me. But across the room, behind the pool table I noticed a young man. He was very handsome, in a vicious sort of way. I tried not to look at him, but I couldn't help stealing glances. Unfortunately, he seemed to know that I was looking at him. He pretended to look beyond me as his lips twisted into a sneering smile.
I took another sip. I sneaked another peak. He raised the beer bottle to his lips and swigged, his eyes glancing off me on their way to the ceiling. What was I doing here? This was all new to me. What was this strange new attraction?
In my younger years I had dated and partied like all the other boys, but as they all married and had families, I retreated further into my own little world holding down an office job Monday through Friday. On the weekends I drove out to the country to do a little bird watching. Occasionally I went over to my sister's house for dinner and to see the kids. Nothing exciting.
I had never had any desire to wed. I could never understand what people were talking about when they said they fell in love. It had never happened to me. And I was not a terribly sexual person. I had had a few experiences, which did not excite me, and I had had trouble keeping an erection. The women always tried to soothe me and tell me it didn't matter, but after a while I didn't want to put myself through that anymore.
I did occasionally 'abuse myself' as the saying goes, but with no particular fantasy, except perhaps the photograph of a large penis entering a mouth, or a vagina, or even a rectum. I liked looking at it. I just didn't want to do it myself.
My eyes darted across the room and the young man was not leaning against the wall where he had been. I quickly surveyed the area and breathed a sigh of relief when I saw him a few feet away talking to another young hoodlum type person. He registered that I had tracked and found him, and again came that cruel smile, which I knew was meant for me, and not for the person with whom he was now conversing
He had very white skin and brilliant blue eyes, but his hair and eyebrows were pitch-black. A startling combination. He was wearing a baseball tee shirt, and form-fitting trousers, all of which betrayed his every muscle and curve. He was exciting. I wished that I could know him. I didn't know why I wanted to know him or what we could ever talk about or do together. Surely he would not be interested in bird watching. And what reason would I have to go over and talk to him? What would I say? What would we ever have in common? But now I wanted to know everything about him. His name, his age, his interests. Everything. I wondered if we could ever become friends.
He seemed to make a little joke to his companion, and he kind of rubbed the front of his pants, and they both laughed, and he was heading towards me. But no. He was heading to my left, and I saw the door there. It was the men's room. He was drawing his zipper down even as he was crossing the crowded bar. I choked on a small ice cube.
It was at that very instant that I knew I needed to use the rest room. But I didn't dare go in while he was there. He would have thought I followed him. I would wait. I waited and I waited. He did not come out for another ten minutes.
I waited until he assumed his earlier slouch against the far wall, before I dared to down the last of my drink and set the glass on the bar. Only then did I walk casually towards the men's room. I made sure not to look either to the right or to the left. My eyes were glue fixedly to the men's room door. I entered.
