Eating Goldfish Crackers at Crush Dance Bar
Alex Carrigan
I brush cracker crumbs off the bar top before I reach for another Goldfish. Before me are silver bowls of halved oranges and grapefruits ready to be squeezed out in the hand juicer. It’s almost Halloween, so fake cobwebs have been put over the records on the wall. They have all the classic gay pop albums, and I am especially happy they included Lungs alongside Purple Rain, brat, and Born This Way. I want to order another drink, but all three bartenders are watching Dance Moms on one of the TVs and reading Abby Lee Miller for filth. “Can you fix your eyebrows before you yell at me?” one bartender asks the TV. “I would go to jail…” another trails off. “This bitch can’t walk and she’s teaching dance?” the third asks. I eat another Goldfish cracker, but it’s hard to chew while I’m stifling a laugh.
