Hell AKA My Hometown bar
Oakville is where the soul goes to die. If you haven’t had the pleasure of visiting, let me paint you a picture: An overdeveloped, slow-paced, brown brick suburbia, where the kids are so bored that they create conflict whenever possible. I rarely write about my life in Kingston, because it’s painfully uncomplicated and happy. Congratulations, but no one wants to read that. Hence, why I write about Oakville.
In high school, my friends and I spent most of our nights in dingy basements or parking lots surrounded by McDonald’s garbage. We didn’t have many other options– the mall sucked and the lake was filled with E. Coli. I looked forward to the day we all turned legal and be able to unlock more exciting parts of town. But soon after my nineteenth birthday, I realized that the experiences I had at Ale House or Stages would not translate at home for many reasons.
In Kingston, when I do stupid things, like fall down the Ale House stairs or flirt with old men to get drinks, I don’t care. The bars are big, so the chances of people not only seeing me but recognizing me are slim. If I meet someone at Queen’s and follow them on Instagram, they’ll maybe be followed by five or six mutuals. In Oakville, you can’t go anywhere without bumping into someone, which is nice 50% of the time. The other 50%, it’s really not. When a name gets brought up, it’s usually followed by a “Wait, didn’t he date-”, “Oh, I know her, she used to be friends with-”. It’s ridiculous, straight out of an Oscar Wilde farce. So, if I do something stupid in Kingston, no one knows. If I do it in Oakville, I’m at risk. And I shouldn’t care, but I do. Sue me.
The following text will now depict, in detail, the most annoying night of my life.
There are a few bars in Oakville but the most popular (and really only) bar for people my age is the King’s Arms. My friend and I are getting ready at my house. There’s a Patron bottle on my bathroom counter, my hair looks great, and my friend’s makeup is flawless. The night’s going well. We decided to go early because we only wanted one drink. After the last weekend spent at this establishment, we’ve decided that one is enough. We talked about how out of control it got, how we’re reigning in the alcohol tonight and not dealing with any problems. Here’s the flaw in that plan: We can’t be sober in this bar. I need a drink in my hand at all times, because when this pit of an establishment fills up, you can’t hide from anyone. As my friend and I are praising our self-control and how foolproof our strategy is, we both get texts from different people, saying they’re in line. I down my Cab Sauv, we get up, get stamped by the bouncer, and walk out the door. Immediately, I run smack dab into a group of people I know from high school. But, because this is Oakville, this group and I have a history, and it’s not positive. The thing is, I don’t hate these people. We talk at parties, and at the bar, and they’re funny. But a few of them live for the drama, which has caused its fair share of problems. I’m not saying I’m blameless - drama is often a two-way street. I should have backed off and stopped entertaining their immature efforts to instigate sooner than I did. But even though I don’t entirely mind these people, when I say they drive me nuts, I mean it. Oakville rewires my brain. One of their girlfriends says hi to me. I like her - she sticks up for me when the rest of them give me crap over what I’ll call ‘The Event’. For the sake of protecting my peace, I won’t be going into detail.
You would think that we would have something new to discuss after three years. “How’s university treating you”, “What’d you do for Hoco”, “How’s your dog”, I don’t know. But every single time I’m near this group, it’s “Hey Toby!” and shortly after, a reference to ‘The Event’. I’m standing at the bar, and one of them keeps nagging me to take a picture. They want to send it to the person responsible for ‘The Event’. I haven’t thought about this person in ages, nor did I want to. My friend gets berated too, about her own ‘Event’. We’ve become these grown, interesting people, with accomplishments and career plans and new, fun stories to tell. I’ve been through multiple ‘Events’ since I was a teenager. But Oakville brings you right back to the person you were before you left, and the King’s Arms and its alcohol multiplies this phenomenon by one thousand. So I deal with these people the same way I did in high school, by returning their petty digs and bringing up their past. And then I’m back in it, hating myself.
The Uber to my house is mostly silent, for the sake of a 5-star rating. At home comes the recap, accompanied by laughs, yelling, and aggressive hand gestures. Self-reflection follows. Why do we keep going to this hellhole? The answers vary: there’s nothing else to do past 9 pm, it can be interesting seeing everybody, we hate ourselves, etc. I’ve concluded that, despite the major anxiety and overpriced drinks, we go back because there is a connection between people in The King’s Arms that is unreplicatable. It’s like being kids with each other again. Nostalgia is a very powerful drug, and the shared history in that room cancels out the poorer memories temporarily. So, when I wake up the next day with a hangover and a hazy memory, I think: “That was kind of fun”. Then, the fallout comes from all the stupid decisions I made that night, and I remember why I hate this bar so much. But at least I’m not bored. The cycle continues.
It’s infuriating, it really is. It’s also my own doing, which makes it worse. And come summer, will I be going back again? You bet. If someone could provide me with a distraction, or an intervention, or maybe a lobotomy, I’d be very grateful.
