The Green Elephant lost its name a long time ago. Now it is Home Bar, a place of legend that is home to shenanigans, romance and liberation.
All corners of the campus population gather beneath this roof week in and week out: athletes, Greeks, upperclassmen, lowerclassmen. People who never cross elsewhere cross here. They share in a camaraderie born of their intersecting desires.
Outside, on the cracked asphalt leading to the dented black doors, a parody of the School of Athens greets those who are late to the party. People are sprawled across benches, milling about, muttering to one another or suddenly and exultantly shouting as though they’d discovered the Pythagorean Theorem.
Inside, lips pressed to deafened ears, back to back, beat to beat, a ton of drunken flesh sizzles, pops and wobbles in a dingy pressure cooker of libido and booze.
“Hey!”
Shouts criss-cross the room as revelers beckon one another to cross the ocean of bodies between each other.
Lasers cut through curls of tobacco smoke and glance off of glazed eyes.
Flashing lights illuminate the dark wooden floor slick and sticky with puddles of liquor and beer.
Hip hop hits rip through the rafters, rattling the floorboards and setting what little cloth clings to the bodies in here abuzz with an augmented heartbeat.
There is no room to move. To make it through the sea of gyrating patrons, people lean in the general direction they want to go or follow someone else’s path, hoping to make it through the tangled mass of limbs, lips and hips.
“Your boyfriend is hot!”
“Oh, he’s not my boyfriend!”
“I Facebook stalked you! You have a boyfriend!”
The air savors mostly of tobacco with a hint of vomit that stabs the back of the nasal cavity at the top of each breath.
This room is not pretty or pleasant, but no one cares.
It’s not about the look of the house. It’s about the feel of Home.
The people who come here want to bathe in the energy that animates this shambly shack.
They want the freedom that comes when no one can see them, hear them, understand them, or remember them.
Big dumb grins fill the revelers’ faces most of the time. Their good vibes loosen with the liquor. The booze bounces nagging social inhibitions out the door, and responsibility is not welcome within these walls.
Sexuality, drink and drawl flow unabashed and unfiltered.
“You’ve got glitter on your face…you, you f*****g f**k!”
“SLIM THUGGAH!”
The students here forget the shiny halls of SMU where their professors, peers and parents push them to perfection.
“Shut Up and Dance” blares over the speakers urging its listeners to live in the moment. They gladly oblige.
Here there is no judgement or regret. Those sad sentiments come later when hangovers and walks of shame remind the revelers of their folly. But tonight they touched freedom. They held her hands and danced with her until the stroke of two.
They leave the bar with freedom leaning on their arms. But in the morning they wake up alone. Freedom only wanted a one-night stand. Maybe they’ll see her the next day. It depends on how much weekend is left. Either way they hope to hook up with freedom again. They never get enough.
That’s why they’ll keep coming back Home.
