:(
The thing you remember most is the smell: it always hits you before you get inside. You practice your stony gaze, sill not yet nineteen, inching closer to the aging punker bouncer when the door opens and the smell hits you square in the face, as if you were already in the pit. It is able to hit you for it is a palpable thing, alive. You almost drop your fake ID and give yourself away, but in truth it wouldn't matter - this bouncer doesn't give a shit anyway. As you are ushered in, avoiding the underage X's, the smell overpowers you. It opens your nostrils and pushes its way into you with all its living pieces: endorphins, dirt-cheap whiskey, floor wax, generic cola syrup, dried beer, vomit, cleaning solution, pickle brine, hormones, spilled vodka tonics, myriad body odors, flannel, denim, leather, youth!
You remember that smell and the rush of cool, Cambridge breeze. Stepping outside is like emerging from under water. You breathe your first breath. As the air chemically reacts with the sweat on your skin you can almost see the steam rise off your body and you feel the sudden urge to roar with victory - a barbaric yawp. You lift your voice out to Brookline street onto Massachusetts Avenue, yelling like you are finally, truly awake. This is the best part of your life. And while you are screaming in the middle of the street, the bouncer will only give you a passing glance before going back to bemoaning the state of the scene and waxing nostalgic about The Rat.
Haaah!
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