©This story is property of The
CyBurr, the online version of The Burr,
Here’s To The Night
Capturing life after
hours around
Story by Jessica Ball
Photos by Amy Mitten
At some point during my
college career, I blinked and found myself a senior ready to graduate. I don’t
want to do it all over again, but I wish I’d left myself a little more time
just to be here instead of working my way through.
I’m not saying all
should hand up their degrees for a good night of all-out-fun. I am saying that
all work and no play leads to forgetting who you are, where you’ve bee and what’s
happening right now.
Tonight, I’m going
out.
Club Khameleon
It is almost déjà vu, but walking into smiling faces, elbow-room and $1 Pabst Blue Ribbons isn’t what I remembered from the bar formerly known as The Avenue. Everything looks brand new, and there is no faint scent of urine guiding your way to the bathroom.
I see an unfamiliar, friendly face, the kind you could have sworn you’ve seen before.
His name is Curt Hutton, a 2000
“This town is like a cul-de-sac. You try to leave, but it brings you right back in here,” he says. “If you can find a hole in the fence, let me know.”
I nestle in the corner booth under the red lights with that in mind. Why do so many people stay here after they graduate? Do they get stuck, or do they just see something in this college town?
My thoughts are interrupted by the people at the next table.
“Party-foul!” a guy yells, pointing to a nasty spill. “Girl, we can’t take you anywhere.”
Not everyone is into wisecracks or making the girl feel bad about knocking over her precious $1 draft. Well-mannered Matt Mukavetz comes to the rescue, armed with napkins.
“This kid can sing the Rolling Stones like no other,” his friend, G.T. Link says.
Matt gives the yeah-you-know-it look as he wipes up the spill. He apparently had a wonderful karaoke experience the night before and assures me he was one of the band’s biggest fans.
He doesn’t look 25. He modestly sports an AC/DC iron-on decal.
“It’s real,” he says. “Go ahead, touch it.”
Matt is another Kent State grad—working in Akron and playing in Kent.
“I’m not into going to Cleveland or Akron to all those professional bars you’re supposed to be going to when you’re 25,” he says. “I’ll pay a $3 cover to see a band.”
Professional bars? I’m not dressed for success, but I think I’ll check them out. But first, I want to go elsewhere to explore new territory.
The Dome 10:
You could say that my first female strip club experience was a little different than I expected. I pictured the pole-bearing runway illuminated by neon lights, and naked girl after naked girl dangling over the edge making her breasts heave while accepting dollar bills with her teeth. From what I hear, the upstairs of the Dome used to have a stage—and a pole, but the ladies moved downstairs to make room for Mr. C’s, the new bar and grill.
Beautiful, self-assured bikini-wearing women strut around the first floor making small talk with the men whose normal days had just turned extraordinary. Because there is no stage, the dancers give personal performances. A new song means a new dance. And patience is a virtue common to each patron.
Two guys, Chris and Billy, patrons from Brimfield, are chilling on the far side of the bar checking out some very close-up T&A. Billy is nice enough to get a lap dance so I can observe its fundamentals.
“You’ll have to wait a minute,” he says seriously. “She’s working right now.”
“She’s not working, she’s workin’ it,” Chris jokes, bobbing his head to the music.
Although Billy’s friend Chris, a 23-year-old “technically married man,” goes out for a little “looky-no-touchy,” he doesn’t forget about his wife while he’s at The Dome.
“It’s kind of like having a new car,” he says. “You can’t leave the old one behind.”
Soon enough, a dancer named Jackie comes over. She’s cute, 19 and not afraid to show her personal side in her working environment. She was, however, hesitant to tell her mother about her new line of work.
“My brother and I are pretty close so I told him first,” she says. “We all went to dinner one night, and my brother kept saying, ‘Hey, Jackie, how about a strip steak.’ She knew something was going on. So I told her I served drinks in a bikini. I didn’t lie.”
She continues to dance while Billy stays focused and quiet until after his song is over.
“When God blessed
I give these girls and guys snaps. The girls make almost half my rent in one night. They must be good at what they do, and I must be in the wrong line of work.
These women have the confidence to know they’re beautiful. The men have the confidence to let them know they appreciate it. Nothing is wrong with that.
Off to
Posh
I think we are about to go on a rollercoaster ride interweaving back and forth through the velvet ropes. A twist, a turn and a staircase later we make our way into Posh.
It is the perfect mix of business and pleasure. You can dance through floating bubbles or sit and talk away from the dance floor where the fishing expedition is taking place. The little fi-she’s are shaking their tail-fins trying to bite or avoid the lines cast by the fishermen on the banks.
I experiment. From the banks I cast off, catching a bite from a lady named Barb Roberts, a bank-teller celebrating the first day of her divorce.
“I’ll never get stuck in the same rut, and I’ll never go back,” she says, pushing her way through the music.
“Hell, yeah,” I say, and I offer her a high-five.
Chad Willmore isn’t the dancing sort.
“Now there’s something you don’t see every day,” he says. “A fish out of water.”
Chad is more of a stay-at-home type. It is his first time at Posh, and he really likes the scene.
“You have to get dressed up a little bit,” he says. “It’s hard to find people who like that techno beat. Everywhere else you go it’s all rap music.”
Fuel
We step out of posh and cross the
street. i have to blink. For a second, I think I am in
They don’t have any Coors Light, but they have $8 martinis. I am hesitant to try one at first, but I have to sample Fuel’s speciality.
My taste buds are rocketed to some subliminal heaven. I can’t keep the glass away from my lips. My mouth wants that natural, sweet flavor only found at Fuel where all juices and drink mixes are organic.
Everyone reclines in a puffy seat or leans against the padded walls sipping on whatever, talking over the day.
“This place reminds me of a Bud commercial,” 26-year-old Tony Nicholson says, proudly displaying his bottle of Bud.
Most of the patrons are trying to hold their wide-mouthed glasses to keep their drinks from spilling. Tony dares to be different.
“Someone’s walking through all these martinis with a Bud in their hand. I dig that.”
Most people are here because they
are sick of the clubs or sports bars and need a change. Danny Kooy was
transferred from the Netherlands to work for an automotive company in Akron. He
says he’s gotten used to hanging around the bar scene in
“If you wanted to chill in the Netherlands, you’d have to go out dancing to a club,” he says. “This is nice. You can sit down, have a drink and relax your mind.”
The Book Store
Funny, I don’t remember seeing many
books. Dirty magazines are more like it, along with every sex toy or necessity
you can imagine. In the back, 1,200 pornographic DVDs and about 800 video
cassettes line the walls, making it a fine adult collection in downtown
Business is a little slow. An older couple is perusing the video selection while 26-year-old Dave Berkenstock, an employee at the Book Store, is giving advice about lubricants to the ladies at the counter.
“You’re going for the cheaper stuff, but it’s not as good,” he says. “This might be expensive but won’t get sticky on you at all.”
The women are in and out of the store in about 20 minutes, but Dave says most of his customers stay for one or two hours.
“Some people have to go through every movie before they pick one. Some people are really timid. Others just jump right in. Sometimes it depends on how much they had to drink before they get here,” he says.
The name “Berkenstock” is German. Generations ago, a nobleman gave the name to one of his ancestors to honor his bravery during battle. I’d give him the award for being so brave in The Book Store, open 24 hours a day Friday through Sunday. I can only imagine what he sees.
“The craziest thing I ever saw was this 88-year-old woman come in here with her walker and ask for a vibrator for her and her sister,” he says. “You could say it caught me off guard.”
All this sex stuff is making me hungry.
Classic rock on the radio, coney
dogs for everyone and service with a smile—you don’t get that at many places at
Hot dogs are everywhere. In the warmers, on the walls and under the counter in gummy-form. A customer even made a ceramic hot dog in her art class and donated it to the coney cause.
“It was nice of her,” says co-owner Zak Richmond admiring the masterpiece. “We have fans.”
I don’t think “fans” is the word.
People are lined single-file outside of Main Street Coneys, ready to eat. Some
cars have to wait in the street.
“Zak is the man, end of discussion,” says Jane Sorosky, sophomore fashion merchandising major. “He knows what we want. We don’t even have to say. I even had my 20th birthday here.”
The business was actually
Most people are too busy stuffing their faces to have any conversation, but Jeff McGuiness, 24, is admiring a customer from afar. Between bites of eye-candy and coney, he tells me his life story.
“I can sum it up in four words: dirt bike, fun and work,” he says, proudly looking around. “I’m going to retire near a Coneys. I really like the area.”
The Rolling Stones come on the radio.
I remember how proud Matt was of
his ac/dc decal back at Club Khameleon. I finally understand what he means
about “the professional bars.” He’s right. Graduating means getting older, the
real world and growing up. It is nice to have a fishing expedition, mingle with
the strippers, sip on organic martinis, learn the ins and outs of lubricants
and catch a glimpse at what life might be like at 25, but I am happy to be
home, back in my own element—chilling in
Jessica Ball (jmball@kent.edu)
©This story is property of The
CyBurr, the online version of The Burr,