Bar 3

Ibiza. Las Vegas. Miami. New York. Monroe, LA. What do these places have in common? World class nightclubs. In Monroe, the club in question happens to be Bar 3.
«Why is it called Bar 3?» Well, they have 3 bars! Under one roof! For one cover!
Let’s set the scene: imagine a decadently trashy post-​industrial warehouse. The dingy exterior, obviously designed to look low-​rent and deliciously depression-​esque by a master architect, beckons you in with a glowing sign that says Bar 3. With changing colors! You walk through what I can only describe as a cross between a cattle pen and a french deco railing and arrive at… a ticket window. I am told by the colorful locals that at one point the building was a dollar cinema. The incorporation of the local history into the architecture of the club is inspiring. The window is staffed by a drag queen. Or possibly a very unattractive woman. Or possibly a performance artist from Julliard trying to finish their MFA in interpretive dance. The bouncer is bored. I’m the only one in line. The whole experience is magical. «Are you having a good night?» the window creature asks. Words fail me, and I am reduced to tears, sobbing into the five dollar bill I pass through the hole in the window.
Walking in, you first enter what I can only guess is the sports bar, the first of the three fabled bars. There are pool tables, spotlit and empty, and what appears to be a wall made out of fake shale. There is a bar. It’s not so much a bar as two holes cut into the wall. This is where you first realize the genius of Bar 3. They are democratizing drinking. There is no top shelf liquor, because there are no shelves. At Bar 3, we are all the same, and no one is better than anyone.
I saunter over nonchalantly to one of the wall-​holes. On the other side, a couple of coolers sit on the floor. A collection of liquor stands on top of them. I count 5 bottles. I also spy what appears to be an old deli soda cooler — the kind painted in Coca-​Cola colors — standing to the side. It looks empty. But at least there are people here! Across the wall-​hole from me, 5 or 6 wall-​hole-​tenders stand, trading idle gossip.
«What kind of beer do you have?» I get a look. I get a list. Not a written list, a verbal list. «We have bud light, coors light, michelob light, ultra, silver, regular, heineken. Anything you want. What can I get you.» I think about what I really want. A Chimay Blue would be good. Or maybe a Stone Imperial Russian Stout. I consider asking for one, then think better of it. The wall-​hole-​tenders look easily offended and prone to outbursts of violence when confused. «Surprise me!» I say. I have yet to be disappointed by a bar-​tenders suggestion. «Well, you don’t look like a b$%#@, so I won’t get you a Zima» the wall-​hole tender quips. I was not aware they still made Zima. I was not aware that any bar still carried Zima. I was not prepared for this, and I feel like I should have trained for a moment like this one. The wall-​hole tender saunters off to one of the coolers and returns with a Redd’s Apple Ale. I take it and pay him 4 dollars. I wander off. I am lost, and I am alone, and the wall-​hole-​tender has done me wrong.
My aimless meandering takes me past a central room, styled to resemble an unused wing of a hospital last updated in the late 70s, and then to the nightclub. This is bar 2 of Bar 3. The dance floor teems with life, in my imagination. It teems with colored lights and the oppressive feeling of desperation and emptiness in real life. I am lost, and I am alone. I do a headcount of the room. Six, not counting bartenders or the two DJs. There are now more bartenders than customers here. Maybe I’m here early. I check my phone. 10:30pm. That’s only 3 hours till closing. I’m not here early.
I do a circuit of the room. At least there’s an actual bar here. The democracy of the sports bar is ruined — there are shelves. There is a top shelf. There is a lonely bottle of Absolut on one, and Jack Daniels on the other. «I’m going to drink some whiskey and f%$^ some p%&&#!» I overhear from one of the patrons. I look around for whiskey, hoping against hope that maybe I just didn’t see it. I look at the lonely bottle of Jack Daniels. I sigh. I am lost, and I am alone.
My roaming has now taken me to the outdoor patio. Metal tables share the space with police barricades. The roof is low, and though I am outside, a profound claustrophobia grips me. The roof is too low, there are too many barricades, and the space is utterly unlit. This is what purgatory feels like. I have wandered into purgatory, clutching a Marlboro Menthol and a Redd’s Apple Ale. Somehow, I always knew it would end like this.
I walked away from the experience a broken man. I have found Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness. I am lost, and I am alone, and all I can taste is apples. I leave, but I know deep down that no one ever really leaves. Bar 3 is inside all of us. In our heart. One heart, one cover, three bars.

REAL nightclub, pool hall, and live music venue! All in one! GREAT bar!