Letter to Mysterious Man of Cass Bar

Dear Mysterious Man of Cass Bar,

You truly embodied the place for me. The Spirit of Cass Bar. The Aura of The Drunken Monkey. The Mood of The Double-Decker Lounge. The Tone of The Study Hall. I stayed just a brief while but you were my Hokie Pokie. You let me know what it was all about.

You were fashionable, my brother. You sported a Russell Wilson Seattle Seahawks jersey and a Yankees fitted cap: I haven’t the slightest idea where you’re from. Those places don’t even match regions of the country. Just Google Map’d it and those two places are 2,800 miles apart. But that’s the point! I have no idea where anyone in that stinky place was from.

 Everyone coming together, in clothing options that don’t make any sense, just having a blast. Diversity, my brother. There were chicks in sequined shorts and it was 40 degrees. You were a champion of the masses in your short-sleeved jersey. I was bourgeois in my collared button-down, but you were unique.

To me, this place was a cage, but to you this was freedom.

I wandered, but you maneuvered with purpose. In and out, to and from (the bar). My coworker and I found ourselves on the outside patio, taking in a cool breeze (a timeout you might say, Mr. Wilson) and there you were.

 The moment in the brisk wind, to me was a break from all the pounding. The pounding of sounds, of bodies, of hands mashing bills into the bar. Pounding brews. Words compounding to compliments and pick-up lines from men not of this country.

I took a breath and there you were, my man, and you were bouncing. Dilly-dallying and wetting your chops for another round inside with blaring beats and beer-drenched polos. This was the end of the third quarter for us, but the way you bobbed, it felt like the pre-game warm-up.

We weaved back to the dance floor. I’m not the most elegant out there, brother, but it was all right. I swear I didn’t follow you, would’ve sworn that you followed me, but either way, we were both back inside, trying to decipher a melody to groove to. I couldn’t find it, and time inched toward the top of the hour, the end of my ball game. I sauntered toward the exit, and I swear midnight looked like your opening kickoff. Still working toward locating that rhythm with a beer in tow.

I left. Brimming with optimism for you and your cap and your beer and your blue-trimmed jersey. It was still so early; and everyone knows Russell Wilson is a fourth-quarter beast.