drinks. danger. debauchery. the rodeo room has it all in spades. i went in one night looking for a drink and barely escaped with my virtue intact. ok, the virtue went a long time ago, but whatever's left of it was definitely in danger of being compromised at the rodeo room. discreetly tucked between some two storefronts on vermont, it is unassuming on the outside and the seamiest dive i've ever seen on the inside. first things first, the rodeo room is a mexican dive bar. the bartender is a thick older latina with bleached blonde hair and a stare that would melt ice. everyone in the joint from the somber looking men propped up on the barstools to the scattered couples clutched in an embrace on the dance floor (well, floor really) are mexican. i was and may have been the only non-latin person to ever step foot inside.
but "bold" is my middle name, so step inside i did, ignoring the blatant and unblinking stares of every unoccupied eye in the place, and dragging my reluctant companion behind me. i marched up to the bar and this stocky mexican guy unexpectedly moves over to free up a barstool. whether gregarious by nature or just thoroughly sauced, he jovially welcomes us, asks if we've been there before, states that he's the owner, and asks to buy us a drink. from that moment on the evening became increasingly bizarre. Drunk Mexican Maybe Owner Guy buys us drink after drink and regales us with tales of how well he's doing and how anything goes at the rodeo room, slyly insinuating that the heavyset women gripped in a never-ending slow dance are actually prostitutes. whether or not he really is the owner, he held court with us as his captive audience, only allowing certain people to enter his domain and interact with us.
while my companion (a naturally inquisitive fellow) is busy interrogating Drunk Mexican Guy, every Other Drunk Mexican Guy in the place is stripping me with their eyes, probably imagining i had on much nicer underwear than i actually did. i felt like a pork chop on a desert island surrounded by starving sailors. one next to me leans in close and informs me that he makes a lot of money, lending credence to the theory that the women there are prostitutes. he then tries to touch me until Drunk Mexican Guy slaps him away. on the other side of the bar, a lean serious guy that looks oddly familiar stares at me, shakes his head every time i have a drink, and keeps mouthing "be careful".
not wanting to push my luck, i grabbed my still gabbing companion and beat it out of there. did anything bad actually go down at the rodeo room? no. but there's an air of mystery and danger there that's begging to solved. is Drunk Mexican Guy really the owner? Are the heavyset women dancing really prostitues? Are there really rooms available in some mysterious upstairs for people to "rent" their companionship? these questions will never be answered unless i return and investigate.
now i just need to find someone stupid enough to come along... read more