Scibor’s Hookah

As I think back on the times I’ve spent at this hookah bar I find it difficult to summarize my experience in mere words; the technology of english language fails under the weight of the things that have occurred in that dimly lit room. Yes there is the presumed hookah, but once inside it becomes nearly impossible to focus on something so pedantic as smoking. Not that you could if you so desired — the waiter clutches onto the single hookah with a death grip usually reserved for the moment one catches their favorite child’s hand just as his body breaks contact with the superstructure of the Manhattan Bridge. No, the first thing you’ll focus on as you peer through the smoke enveloping your body is a pair of demonic eyes hovering over a smile that will send chills through your body despite the budget air conditioning. The feeling of being watched intensifies as you turn around and glimpse a cadre of neighbors peering through the window and shaking their heads; you get the sense that this is a regular activity for them and a spectacle that they may even be selling tickets for. With a feeling of panic rising in your chest you wave over the waiter and ask for a beer; it is only after several minutes of escalating your voice and gesticulating violently that you realize he cannot hear a single word you are saying. You begin to get that feeling your parents told you to watch out for from a very young age — trusting intuition you run for the door and grab for the doorknob only to have it break off in your hands like something out of a cheap horror film. As panic blossoms into outright terror you spin around just in time to see the waiter emerge from the cloud of smoke with a small spoon protruding from his nostril — his hookah replaced with a roll of mickey mouse duct tape. Abandon all hope ye who enter here, and don’t say I didn’t warn you.