Seriously, when I read the title of this week’s writing challenge on the daily post, I wasn’t thinking of restaurants, as the poll suggested. Also, there are different kinds of kids. I remember when I was 8 years old, it was my grandfather’s 70th birthday, the entire family was invited to a skiing resort for a week, and every evening we would dine in the restaurant of the hotel where my grandparents stayed. Now you think one kid in a Restaurant is a nuisance? Try 7 kids, ranging in age from 6 to 12, one a worse snot-nosed punk than the other. Every evening someone would whine that they didn’t like the food, because it had tomatoes, or olives, sardines, or whatever. Well, I never whined about the food. I always ate what was on my plate, because I like all food, always have, always will. But that is entirely beside the point, because I was difficult in different situations. I used to wander around. Explore. D’you know what parents do when they have lost sight of their 8-year old son? If you have a kid that tends to wander off, you certainly do, but witnessing someone who’s lost their kid in a crowd will also never forget what a freaked out parent looks like.
In the end, it leads to mildly amusing stories to remember, when everyone is accounted for. Now I would like to describe a place where you should NEVER, EVER take a kid, a place that I thought of when I read “adult”.
Almost dark, only dimly lit, mostly in some bluish colors. A tall man with big muscles in a black T-shirt guards the door, his identical twin on the other side of the entrance. A long bar, men sitting on the stools, facing toward the center of the room, their drinks in their backs: beer and whiskey. Young women with foreign accents are serving drinks to the men sitting at the tables. Their scanty outfits would be called underwear or bikinis if it weren’t for the material. The DJ changes the trax, from a casual jingle to a performance track, the red and yellow on stage changes into a circle of white, parted in the middle by a pole. A blonde, cream white skin, with long legs and artificial wings slips through the curtains and begins to dance for the mesmerized men, whose only excuse for touching their new goddess is slipping a dollar into her panties.
They really like touching her.