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The Band Box Tavern

Recently, my sister and I were reminiscing about our wild party days when we were younger—staying out until 5 a.m. and hiding in my car around the corner waiting for our mom to leave for work. so that we don’t walk in while he’s having breakfast in his nightgown. Our conversation inevitably turned into drunken nights at a bar in Bellmore we used to call The Band Box Tavern.

Well, The Band Box was a special place for my sister and I… we were Sunday afternoon regulars (literally, not figuratively) since we were little kids. My dad, like many others, played softball on Sunday mornings, and the experience wasn’t complete without going to the bar afterward—beer for the men, Shirley Temples with extra cherries for the kids. I know times have changed drastically and nowadays bringing a kid into a bar triggers a visit from child protective services, but back in the 1970s and early 80s it was commonplace and we certainly weren’t the only kids , who ran around like ragamuffins.

One Sunday, when I was about 9 years old and in no pain, my father gave me a few dollars to put in the Jukebox (one that had been playing for 45 years! I’m old!). I was – and still am – a huge Blondie fan and my favorite song at the time was Rapture (you know, Fab Five Freddie and the Martians who eat cars, bars and guitars…) Well, whatever, I was old enough to to love music and was old enough to put the money in the machine and find the songs I wanted to play, but I wasn’t experienced enough to realize that once I punched in the code to play Rapture there would be a significant delay . before the song actually played. When the music didn’t start right away, I thought I had done something wrong, so I dialed the number again. It still wasn’t playing, so now I thought the jukebox was broken and hit Rapture a third time… and a fourth. By the time Rapture played for the seventh time in a row, I was getting dirty looks all over the bar (remember, this was in front of the remote and you couldn’t ‘skip’ songs) and the bartender finally pulled the jukebox.

It was a homecoming of sorts when we ourselves returned to The Band Box as patrons and quickly regained our regular status. On one such hazy night, another regular, whose name has completely escaped my attention, so I’ll call him Bear, invited me to accompany him to Atlantic City the next day. Bear looked like an overweight and aging Magnum PI, with his Hawaiian shirt half unbuttoned, a thick gold chain, and a tangle of coarse chest hair. I think he was in his mid to late 30s with thick, curly salt and pepper hair and a Hell’s Angels mustache. I found it physically repulsive, so of course I agreed to go (insert “Shot in the eye” emoji here).

He got to me the next morning at 7am, and in my bleary-eyed, hungover, sleep-deprived state, I wanted nothing more than to cancel the trip and stay in bed. But he was out, honking, and he had already paid my bus fare the night before. I told Bear I was going to the AC with him, but I also told him I was broke…in fact, I think I had less than $10 in my wallet. Bear agreed to pay for the trip, so I felt obliged to get up and go. I hadn’t showered or changed from the night before, so I can only imagine how I looked stumbling to his car. We went to The Band Box where the bus left.

When I boarded the bus, it was like walking onto the set of the movie Cocoon. If you don’t remember, this was the movie with all the old people swimming in the pool with alien eggs and regaining their youth by draining the life force from the alien embryos. In other words, I was the great-grandson of 75% of the group we traveled with. Bear seemed to know everyone on the bus; I’m guessing based on your affiliation with the local K of C, rotary club, or VFW. At this point I tried to escape and called my sister to come get me, but she just laughed and told me to sleep in the messy bed, which I despised.

I took your advice. I napped during the 4 1/2 hour drive to Jersey, and even though I wasn’t, I pretended to be. Like a fly on the wall, I eavesdropped on the conversations of those around me as they complimented Medve on his pretty, young girlfriend and asked how long we’d been dating. His boastful reply that it was our first date almost made my ears bleed and my stomach spasm. Moaning silently in my head, I hatched a plan to sabotage any idea Bear had of kissing me within the next 8 hours.

Turns out I was supposed to be a bored, whiny, smelly girl.

I stood next to Bear while he played Black Jack, yawning annoyingly and making sure no part of my body touched his. I could smell the stale cigarette smoke from the night before in my hair, and the sour smell of alcohol seeping through my skin, and I thanked and praised my nastiness…I hoped it would work like garlic on a vampire. Bear gave me $20 to eat while we were there and we went to some restaurant in the casino. He ordered steak, fries, salad… the works. I had already spent some of my $20 on drinks because since I wasn’t gambling I wasn’t eligible for free drinks at the casino. So I didn’t have enough money to buy a decent meal, so I settled for a sandwich and chips. I complained loudly about my food (and honestly – it was terrible) as I enviously watched Bear eat his shrimp cocktail. I was tired, hungry, in company I didn’t want to be in, and I didn’t hesitate to let Bear know how miserable I was. By the time we got back to the bus to leave, not only did he not speak to me, he didn’t even sit next to me on the way home.

Moral of the story: The most painless way to get out of a bad date is to be worse.

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