Experiencing the Salerno’s Bar

By: Cameron Johnson, 1L

Junior Online Editor

It’s 9:00PM and you’ve been in the library reading what seems like the same case over and over for five days straight. Your hair is greasy, the liquid in your eyes has congealed, and you’re pretty sure you’re wearing the same pair of socks that you had on yesterday. And the day before.

You are two seconds away from cracking that textbook in half when your friend taps you on the shoulder and asks, “Hey, are you drinking at Salerno’s tonight?”

Salerno’s. That name sounds familiar to you. Isn’t that the pizza place frequented by people who got lost on their way to Dominos? Wait, that’s right. You remember now. Every Friday, when they aren’t closed for no reason, Salerno’s turns into the only club in Lexington, and you turn back into the fun human you see in pictures on Facebook’s time-hop feature.

“Hells yeah I’ll be there,” you say, immediately regretting adding an ‘s’ to “Hell.”

It’s 10:00PM and for the past 15 minutes you’ve been shifting back and forth in front of the cracked full-length mirror that hangs on the back of your closet door. Does that outfit look okay? Jeans and a sweater. Do young

Source: http://rockbridgereport.academic.wlu.edu | Salerno’s Restaurant opened a late-night bar last year in their upstairs event space.

Source: http://rockbridgereport.academic.wlu.edu | Salerno’s Restaurant opened a late-night bar last year in their upstairs event space.

cosmopolitans dress like this?

You aren’t sure. It’s been so long since you’ve left Lexington that you’ve forgotten. It’s too late to change now, anyway. You have to get to Salerno’s soon for one last look at your classmates before they turn off all the lights like they’re trying to convince the cops that nobody’s home.

It’s 11:00PM and you’ve been belly-up to the bar for a half an hour. Where is that bartender with your drink? At this point you can’t even remember what you ordered. All you know is it was your third choice.

You become acutely aware that everyone is pressed together behind you, jockeying for what little bar-side real estate remains. When people die in stampedes it’s because they suffocate, not from being trampled, you remember just now.

You try to shout for the bartenders, but they can’t hear you over the sound of early-2000s pop music, courtesy of the only DJ in town. Was it a bourbon and ginger? It was. That’s so simple.

It’s 12:00AM and the bartender finally plops your drink down in front of you. The glass is hot and your B & G has no ice cubes in it. “That’s weird,” you think as you take a sip. That isn’t a B & G at all. That’s just five shots of whiskey.

At this point the bartender has disappeared and there’s no way that you’re getting his attention again. You take a deep breath and hold your nose. You take solace in the eventual heat-death of the universe. Down your hole.

It’s 11:00AM and you wake up halfway off your bed. You check your phone. There’s a text from your friend. “What a fun night!” it reads. You roll back over and try to forget the whole thing.