Bar - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
We walk into the bar, colonise the booth and order a round of neat spirits. That's how we get the night started.
It's a bar, but everyone is attempting to appear proper in their high end suits and attire. Me and Ralph, we're the only ones that look normal... but I guess 'normal' is relative, right? It's a fancy place alright, a sort of minimalist-classical, but that's okay for us. We were born to stand out and the whiskey here is pretty darn good.
If I could melt into this bar I'd be the vibe, move around as easily as the smoke. I'd soak in the laughter and the smiles, dance upon each octave in microscopic disco shoes. But meanwhile, back in reality instead of my imaginary world, I'm life-size, and so... instead I'll step into the shaded room that opens my eyes all the wider, see the muted colours of the bottles and the glitter than finds every spark of light. As the night goes on, I'll be more comfortable in this crowd, intoxicated by spirits and the moments all the same.
I rest my hand on the rough paintwork that coats the door and push. Rough wooden splinters cut into my palm; shards of black paint crumble to the floor. The hinges squeal as though they are a warning, but their plea is silenced by a wall of noise. Laughter overpowers the jukebox. Conversations swirl in a dirty cloud of smoke, the stagnant stench of cigarettes hides within the collaboration of mephitic odours. A sharp smell of drink wafts towards me, like black plumes bellowing from the windows of a burning house. There’s even a hint of sick tainting the fragrance of the room.
The bar is hundreds of conversations told in loud voices, all of them competing with the rock music that dominates the atmosphere. The crowd is young, students from the university for the most part. Levi winds his way through the warm bodies to order a drink - the dark local beer. Before the drink is poured he feels someone melting their body to his from behind and he knows Sasha has arrived.
The bar started out as a plank of wood suspended between two oil drums on the beach. My hippie mate Sef began it when he dropped out of highschool at 16, much to the dismay of his overachieving parents. All those piano lessons gone to waste. He moved out and couch surfed among his friends for a while, then he got mighty sick of having back ache like some old man and he got motivated. His bar was a huge success, none of his friends were old enough to get into a real bar for drink. He just moved his barrels and plank around to avoid the cops, announce the location on social media and pop up minutes before the start time. His raves made him pretty wealthy for a teen and everyone thought he'd be a druggie next, now that he was so flush and all. But that's not what happened. He never touched a drop of booze, in his glass was water with food dye to make it look like whiskey, or water in a vodka bottle. Sef went right out and bought a suit, got a bank loan and started a real classy bar
The smoke twisted in its artistic way, forming curls in the gloom, illuminated only by the age-speckled bar lights. Along the wall was every hue of amber liquid in their inverted bottles; every vice that Derek had been ordered to avoid. He raised a shaky finger to call the server, and when they did not appear he turned his head slowly to his right to watch her scrubbing the glass of the chiller cabinet, recently re-stuffed with those stupid garish alco-pops all the teens were slurping faster than coca-cola. "It must be near closing," he thought to himself. Even in his alcoholic stupor his heart rate rose a little and his face flushed even pinker. "Hey!" he called, "'ow 'bout 'rink, 'iskey." The girl turned her head, the professional smile she'd worn all night was quite gone. Her eyes were pink, lids sagging and her face hung loose and long.
"We're closed, Derek. Go home." Then she returned to the glass. He wobbled on the high stool, his leg buckling when he stood...
Gabby leaned on the bar, her black hair lying over one shoulder of her sequinned dress. She lolled her head to one side, pushing out her red lips just a little. She wasn't drunk yet but she liked to give the impression that she was. The bar-tender was there to take her order in a flash, eyes dropping only momentarily to her low-cut neckline. She twiddled her hair in a seemingly absent-minded way and giggled girlishly before ordering a Barcardi Breezer. She'd practiced drinking sexily from them at home in front of the mirror, just water in them then. She watched him fetch it, there were muscles under that shirt. His face was above average with those light eyes and tanned skin, perhaps she'd come back for him later...
Tavern, Pub, loud music, bar food, peanuts, chips. Jangle of voices. Men and women who look older than they are, slumped on bar, pint glasses, shot glasses, someone crying in corner, anguish lost in hubbub and din, standing drinkers at the bar, couples in secluded bays, laughing, back slapping, drinking games, another round, pink cheeks, boasting, swearing, threatening, fights, drink driving, police, taxi cabs, last orders bell, turn out time, clean down bar, wash glasses, wipe counters, wipe tables, put chairs on tables, sweep floor.
The tinkle of glass on glass as Ella mixes her cocktail is lost under saxophone notes that jump and dance in the smoky cavern. Her dress hangs from her shoulders, hugging her form as she stares at swirling liquor. When she raises heavily made up eyes at the man taking the stool next to hers, I know the movie has really begun. She fixes him in a look that would make any character other than our hero shrivel. He meets her gaze with the smile of one who knows the upper hand is his and lights up a cigarette to add to the hazy cloud, lingering, spiralling in stagnant air. She folds one leg over the other, dangling her high heel, showing more leg; yet her face stays aloof, disinterested. It's a film noir “stand off” of sexual power...
Perhaps a couple hundred years ago the coaches pulled into this old inn with tired horses, the patrons stumbling in hungry and cold. It has that tudor feel, white walls, dark wood, reddish carpet. Timothy stoops below the wooden beams that cross the ceiling before falling onto a bar stool. He turns to see Oliver enter, cheeks burning light hot coals against the wintry blast, catching a glimpse of the nose-to-tail traffic outside. The bar tender is waiting, "Greg, two steak and chips, two ales, and a drink for yerself." Oliver claps Timothy on the shoulder so hard he lets out the air in his lungs with an "ooof."
The bar curves into the room, dark in the barely lit room. Through the windows, the diamonds of lead panes, trickles the sallow light of street-lamps. The smell has changed over the years. Once it was of cigarette smoke only, the perfume that clung to clothing, skin and furniture alike. Now it is stale beer and body odour. There are establishments that are more like restaurants now - all clean with waiting staff. Not here. Not and the "Dog and Broom." It was always a den of debauchery, alcoholism and the great unwashed of the town. It still is. No-one comes here with anything wholesome in mind.