A Night at the Pythodd

This is You.

Today was a special day because you just turned eighteen. And what was better than hitting up the Pythodd with your friends, because you had been working all day and all week at your Grandfather’s toy store to save up a dollar or two for a ticket to the Pythodd. And your friends, who had already turned that envy age of eighteen, have been haggering you about the Pythodd Club, saying, “Hey man, you wouldn’t guess who showed up last week!” As per usual, you’d ask who and they’d say, “Leonard Bernstein!” And at this point, you wished your mother gave birth to you a year earlier. 
As the evening came to a close, the line outside the Pythodd Club grew. You were waiting in line with your friends, but yet, you couldn’t help feeling nervous. You had your ID card out to prove your age and you got that shiny dollar coin in your pocket. You were all set until the line stopped moving the moment you were up next. Jase, the security guy, held his hand up, “Sorry man, the Club is too crowded right now. Wait for a few, yeah? We don’t want no fire marshals up here. They are too tired of us.” So you waited a few minutes. Maybe a few more. Once inside, your eyes tried to adjust to the dim lights. Everywhere you turned, another pair of bodies would be squeezed between chairs and tables that didn’t match. And that was how you navigated through the crowd, your hands becoming your eyes. 
Once you found a couple chairs, you and your friends settled down and took out a few smokes. As the music started and the stage lit up, it was as if you transcended the place and was transported to the left banks of Paris. You didn’t realize where you were anymore. 

Welcome to the Pythodd Club.