Dodger
02-23-2009, 4:14 PM
I had to write a setting paper for English. Just describe some place you went to. I wrote about a hookah bar. I think it's all right, and wanted to see what you guys think.
Just a first draft, haven't proofread it yet so sorry for grammatical mistakes. Uh ok here.
I swerve right at the last second. “Dude! Chill out!”, my friend exclaims in the passenger seat.
“Well, tell me when to turn sooner then. I don’t know where this place is.” I respond. I feel a mixture of excitement and anxiety bubbling within me. I wasn’t nervous, just anticipatory. The feeling was a bit spoiled by knowing I would have to dissect this experience and write about it, however, not even that could make this a bad experience.
“It’s up here on the right” my comrade informs me. I decide to play deaf and erratically turn into the parking lot as if I almost missed it.
“It was right here. Man, you’re horrible at this giving directions thing.” I joke. He doesn’t find it very amusing and simply glares at me. I park my car and eagerly walk towards the front door. Images of opium dens fill my head. Hazy, smoky, rooms filled with seasoned, jaded, life-hardened men recounting war stories or comparing how many tigers they’ve managed to kill with a simple boot knife. Men that would make Clint Eastwood feel emasculated. And I was going to be in their presence, I’d eavesdrop and take notes on how to become such a admirable rogue and, of course, avoid their gaze.
My hand grips the door handle and I pull, expecting to be hit with the strong smell of smoke and whiskey, expecting to walk into a scene of Goodfellas and be surrounded by a bunch of mobsters and they’d all leer at me, because I was an outsider; I’d leer back, they’re like wild animals, you can’t show fear or they’ll tear you apart. I wish I had brought my fedora hat.
The door opens, and the reality hits me. There’s no Italian mobster talking of “the family”, nor are there any war veterans vehemently detailing his scissor fight with one of “those damn Japs!” There was just a bunch of kids. I doubt any of them had ever even killed a tiger, let alone with only a boot knife. There was no recounting of gory tales where you see your best friend jump on top of a grenade to save your life, knowing you’d no longer be the same man. There was telling of how some of the guys in here managed to manipulate some freshmen girls into bed, and how that somehow makes them manlier. My fedora hat would’ve been sorely out of place.
“What are you doing? You’re blocking the door. Move!” my friend urges from behind me. We go sit at a table. The chairs aren’t very comfortable, much too rigid. They make one sit up straight, which in strict violation of how a cool person is to sit. I withstand it though, waiting for our server. I look around and feel a bit disappointed. I didn’t really expect a tough, manly saloon; That was more of my imagination running wild. However, I did expect something different. I look around and all the waiters and waitresses have the same apathetic, feigned happy faces that one sees at any restaurant. All the customers are the same one would see shopping at Hollister or Hot Topic, hipsters, immersing themselves in the latest fad, quickly relinquishing it once the majority of people follow their example. I don’t really care much for hipsters. All in All, if not for the puffs of smoke emancipating themselves from the tables of snobbery and superficiality, or the slightly irritating middle-eastern music humming out of the speakers, then it would really just be like any restaurant within suburban North Carolina.
“Hey guys! How are you doing tonight? My name’s Sarah and I’ll be your server. Is there anything I can help you with?” a chipper waitress, apparently named Sarah, declared. Sarah was pretty; I could think of a couple of things I wouldn’t mind her helping me with. Instead, I restrained my wit, and after a bit of debating with my partner, we ordered to smoke some strawberry flavored tobacco and ordered some drinks. I wasn’t particularly hungry, not yet at least, and I still wanted to focus more on the atmosphere. It’s difficult to focus with food in front of you. Sarah scurried off to fill our order, leaving me and my friend to chit chat about trivialities.
My attention kept being caught by the table across the aisle from us. There were four of them, two boys and two girls. The guys looked a couple years older than me, but they were still boys; their actions betrayed the image they were trying to portray. Dressed in the latest season guido attire, I wondered how difficult it’d be to put on a shirt as tight as theirs. They coughed every time they inhaled. Now, I’m no elitist or smoking snob, I understand if you’ve never smoked before how one could cough, but I’ve smoked hookah before; it hits extremely smooth and clean. You’d have to be an infant to cough smoking hookah. Not to mention I knew why they were doing it. They wanted to give the impression of smoking marijuana, they were mimicking every stoner movie made. Of course, the girls ate it right up. They always do. I felt a bit of sadistic happiness, knowing they found someone equally as dumb as they are.
Ten minutes passed, still no hookah. “Do they always take this long?” I inquired.
“Yeah, pretty much.” My friend responded uninterested. I wondered what could be taking them so long. I was willing to bet some guy, resembling our hookah neighbors, was probably talking up Sarah, keeping my hookah and drink away from me. Coincidentally, Sarah showed up not long after that with our hookah and drinks. Dr. Pepper, I thought as I took a sip, it truly does make the world taste better. They finished preparing the hookah and I took the first hit. Nothing, it didn’t pull. We had to wait a couple minutes for it to reach full smoking capability, so we could truly enjoy it. The bubbling sound of the hookah reminded me of how anxious I was to come here, and how it similarly it sounded now to my grumbling stomach. I dare not order food though, lest I wait another half hour for the food to arrive. Instead I relied on the strawberry flavored smoke to fill my hunger. It was enjoyable.
We smoked and talked until the coal burned out. The hookah relaxed me. I wasn’t as critical or neurotic. We paid and left the tip, it was a rare thing to find someone as enthusiastic as Sarah especially considering what a crappy job she has. We stepped out into the cold night, my lungs and throat still warm from the constantly mobile haze running through them.
“Do you know what to write about now?” my friend asked me.
I responded with a resounding “meh.”
I had gotten my hopes up and that ruined the experience a bit for me. But it was still enjoyable. I figured that expectations can ruin even good things. Don’t expect much and you’ll be pleasantly surprised. Expect the world and you’re bound to be disappointed.
Just a first draft, haven't proofread it yet so sorry for grammatical mistakes. Uh ok here.
I swerve right at the last second. “Dude! Chill out!”, my friend exclaims in the passenger seat.
“Well, tell me when to turn sooner then. I don’t know where this place is.” I respond. I feel a mixture of excitement and anxiety bubbling within me. I wasn’t nervous, just anticipatory. The feeling was a bit spoiled by knowing I would have to dissect this experience and write about it, however, not even that could make this a bad experience.
“It’s up here on the right” my comrade informs me. I decide to play deaf and erratically turn into the parking lot as if I almost missed it.
“It was right here. Man, you’re horrible at this giving directions thing.” I joke. He doesn’t find it very amusing and simply glares at me. I park my car and eagerly walk towards the front door. Images of opium dens fill my head. Hazy, smoky, rooms filled with seasoned, jaded, life-hardened men recounting war stories or comparing how many tigers they’ve managed to kill with a simple boot knife. Men that would make Clint Eastwood feel emasculated. And I was going to be in their presence, I’d eavesdrop and take notes on how to become such a admirable rogue and, of course, avoid their gaze.
My hand grips the door handle and I pull, expecting to be hit with the strong smell of smoke and whiskey, expecting to walk into a scene of Goodfellas and be surrounded by a bunch of mobsters and they’d all leer at me, because I was an outsider; I’d leer back, they’re like wild animals, you can’t show fear or they’ll tear you apart. I wish I had brought my fedora hat.
The door opens, and the reality hits me. There’s no Italian mobster talking of “the family”, nor are there any war veterans vehemently detailing his scissor fight with one of “those damn Japs!” There was just a bunch of kids. I doubt any of them had ever even killed a tiger, let alone with only a boot knife. There was no recounting of gory tales where you see your best friend jump on top of a grenade to save your life, knowing you’d no longer be the same man. There was telling of how some of the guys in here managed to manipulate some freshmen girls into bed, and how that somehow makes them manlier. My fedora hat would’ve been sorely out of place.
“What are you doing? You’re blocking the door. Move!” my friend urges from behind me. We go sit at a table. The chairs aren’t very comfortable, much too rigid. They make one sit up straight, which in strict violation of how a cool person is to sit. I withstand it though, waiting for our server. I look around and feel a bit disappointed. I didn’t really expect a tough, manly saloon; That was more of my imagination running wild. However, I did expect something different. I look around and all the waiters and waitresses have the same apathetic, feigned happy faces that one sees at any restaurant. All the customers are the same one would see shopping at Hollister or Hot Topic, hipsters, immersing themselves in the latest fad, quickly relinquishing it once the majority of people follow their example. I don’t really care much for hipsters. All in All, if not for the puffs of smoke emancipating themselves from the tables of snobbery and superficiality, or the slightly irritating middle-eastern music humming out of the speakers, then it would really just be like any restaurant within suburban North Carolina.
“Hey guys! How are you doing tonight? My name’s Sarah and I’ll be your server. Is there anything I can help you with?” a chipper waitress, apparently named Sarah, declared. Sarah was pretty; I could think of a couple of things I wouldn’t mind her helping me with. Instead, I restrained my wit, and after a bit of debating with my partner, we ordered to smoke some strawberry flavored tobacco and ordered some drinks. I wasn’t particularly hungry, not yet at least, and I still wanted to focus more on the atmosphere. It’s difficult to focus with food in front of you. Sarah scurried off to fill our order, leaving me and my friend to chit chat about trivialities.
My attention kept being caught by the table across the aisle from us. There were four of them, two boys and two girls. The guys looked a couple years older than me, but they were still boys; their actions betrayed the image they were trying to portray. Dressed in the latest season guido attire, I wondered how difficult it’d be to put on a shirt as tight as theirs. They coughed every time they inhaled. Now, I’m no elitist or smoking snob, I understand if you’ve never smoked before how one could cough, but I’ve smoked hookah before; it hits extremely smooth and clean. You’d have to be an infant to cough smoking hookah. Not to mention I knew why they were doing it. They wanted to give the impression of smoking marijuana, they were mimicking every stoner movie made. Of course, the girls ate it right up. They always do. I felt a bit of sadistic happiness, knowing they found someone equally as dumb as they are.
Ten minutes passed, still no hookah. “Do they always take this long?” I inquired.
“Yeah, pretty much.” My friend responded uninterested. I wondered what could be taking them so long. I was willing to bet some guy, resembling our hookah neighbors, was probably talking up Sarah, keeping my hookah and drink away from me. Coincidentally, Sarah showed up not long after that with our hookah and drinks. Dr. Pepper, I thought as I took a sip, it truly does make the world taste better. They finished preparing the hookah and I took the first hit. Nothing, it didn’t pull. We had to wait a couple minutes for it to reach full smoking capability, so we could truly enjoy it. The bubbling sound of the hookah reminded me of how anxious I was to come here, and how it similarly it sounded now to my grumbling stomach. I dare not order food though, lest I wait another half hour for the food to arrive. Instead I relied on the strawberry flavored smoke to fill my hunger. It was enjoyable.
We smoked and talked until the coal burned out. The hookah relaxed me. I wasn’t as critical or neurotic. We paid and left the tip, it was a rare thing to find someone as enthusiastic as Sarah especially considering what a crappy job she has. We stepped out into the cold night, my lungs and throat still warm from the constantly mobile haze running through them.
“Do you know what to write about now?” my friend asked me.
I responded with a resounding “meh.”
I had gotten my hopes up and that ruined the experience a bit for me. But it was still enjoyable. I figured that expectations can ruin even good things. Don’t expect much and you’ll be pleasantly surprised. Expect the world and you’re bound to be disappointed.