You may not realize it, but you could be next.
It happens to the best of us. Almost as tragic as the realization that Santa Claus is a big phony, and yes, your parents still do the naughty on the reg.
Gainesville isn’t that big of a place, so sooner or later, we all cross paths with even the darkest of menaces.
And professors go to bars. Teachers and TAs, too.
They’re at Lillian’s Music Store and Manuel’s Vintage Room, but they’re also hidden in the dirty, dive bar depths of mid and downtown that we once thought only belonged to us. Our kingdoms.
It’s with great pain and perpetual cold sweats that I admit this from a very personal and traumatizing experience that has lingered in my memory bank for the past year.
It was like any other Friday, or so I thought. I awake from my 7-hour end-of-the-week nap just in time to scarf down a sobriety supper, get primped and rush out to another live show. There’s nothing quite like a Saturday night spent at 1982 filled with good tunes and a plethora of secondhand smoke. Oh, how I love you, downtown Gainesville.
I frolic around the bar, mingling with friends, sipping (spilling) my gin and tonic, when I see an all-too-familiar sight – a creep.
My radar flares. The cold sweats begin.
He’s old enough to be your dad – or at least an uncle – but he’ll bank on the fact that he’s not quite eligible for AARP and that’s why you should still consider talking with him. He sticks out like a sore thumb because, seriously, who the fuck wears a suit to 1982? On a Friday night. In Gainesville, FL.
The creep, done successfully. Gentlemen, don’t try this at home. Or anywhere.
I silently scoff and revel in the fact that I’m armed with mace and the ability to throw a semi-decent punch. I’m far too accustomed to these middle-aged night crawlers to let anything stop me.
But, this one is dawning his “coolest” attitude, keenly hanging off the chair, dropping his swag all over the place, as he sits – alone – at this college bar.
My radar flares once again. The cold sweats are now full-fledged hot flashes. I know this man.
He’s that vaguely mysterious face in those two online lectures I “watched” the other day!
“Uh, hey, Mr. I’m Not Going to Include Your Name Because You’re Probably Trolling This Site Right Now.”
“BRITTANY, HOW ARE YA, DARLIN?”
Pro tip: there is nothing darling about being 22 years older than the girl you are calling “darlin’.” At 1982. On a Friday night. In Gainesville, FL.
I quickly regain composure and realize he is far more mortified than I am threatened.
“Well, this is a little unexpected.”
“Yeah… well who doesn’t love this music scene?!” He rhetorically asks and nervously laughs as his foot tries, but fails, at keeping up with the basic rhythm of the local indie outfit that’s playing in the background.
So, this bizarre song and dance goes on for a few minutes (and I’m not talking about the band – they were great). I was willing to keep up small chat until this man reaches in to put his hand on my shoulder mid-conversation.
Radar breaks. Body temperature stifles.
I already feel invaded when I watch your lectures in my studio apartment, but I understand I welcome some level of this weirdness by choosing to tune into these lessons sans pants. Fair enough.
However, actual IRL (In Real Life for those who aren’t hip to the game) touching is a little too much for my delicately personal bubble to handle.
At some point, I thank my lucky stars as this forced chat ends. He retreats to the bar, and I flee the scene of the travesty to return to a confused friend group, who could feel the awkwardness from across the venue.
“Who was that?” they question.
“My teac–
Nah.
“I don’t know.”
Point is: we all love a good Gainesville adventure. We’re young, we’re liberated, sometimes we’re even puking in the streets and we don’t care who knows it. To some extent, we’re allowed to be this ratchet.
But keep that guard up. Good luck and Godspeed because, unfortunately, as a UF student, not every experience is as blissful as a national championship or as pleasant as a panty dash through Turlington.
You never know who’s going to show up.
Because the Gator Nation, in all its glory, is – really, regrettably – everywhere.
Image courtesy of NBC, SNL.
