Hell Above Ground.
Since becoming a little more than friends with the bouncer at two local clubs, I'd checked out a place called Second Floor a little sooner than I may have been ready to. I figured I had nothing to lose by going there, because my admission was free and it would provide me with an extra source of entertainment. Second Floor was once a place well-known to Burlington as Club Millenium. And it seems that with the death of Millenium and the birth of Second Floor, absolutely nothing has changed in that hoochie-hole but the name.
Millenium was infamous for how easily it attracted the shortest skirts, whitest thugs, baggiest FUBU shirts, longest chains, and biggest tits. Club Millenium was where they played crappy rap music so loud that you could hear it down the block, if it wasn't being drowned out by trailor trash starting a bitch fight over some dude with seven teeth. After Sha-na-na's burned down a couple years ago, Millenium was the only place left to find your trashy entertainment for a night. All you had to do was stand outside on a Friday night, and it was guaraunteed that no more than five minutes later, a fight would break out. This place has always had more trash than the junk yard.
Upon entering, I was hit with exactly what I should've expected. Skin-tight zebra pants, ill-fitted triangle shirts, bright white K-Swiss shoes, and bling bling in every direction. I was an alternative chick in Scenester Hell, one floor above the sidewalk. It was exactly what it had always been, swarmed with the ugliest and most disgusting bodies and faces, and polluted by the sound of the most god-awful music ever created.
But as I said, entry was free, so I did with it what I could, and places like Second Floor are why I love being good at pool. Every Wednesday when Ian is working, I make sure to get sufficiently hammered before I dare the steps leading up to the Second Floor, and I hustle my way through the night. I put on my own version of sexy clothing under my jacket and flash my cute smile while I kick every guy's ass on the table. There's something about beating these disgusting men at a game they claim to rule that makes it so rewarding and exhilerating. I can play dimwhit so easily, then turn around and school them in a way they never saw coming. I'm pretty damn good at pool, and all this confidence and weekly practice has only made me better. I've beaten premature ballers with long chains and large bling. I've beaten men twice my size in muscle, covered in tattoos and riddled with doubt for my victories. I must admit I was a little afraid when I first entered Second Floor; I'd literally never been surrounded by so much trash and stupidity in my life. But after a few weeks of hustling until the late night, I think I'm the one they know they're supposed to be afraid of. They know now to hold tightly to their twenties next time they see me slap a quarter on the table and call winner's game.