The weather is no concern, it’s Friday night and we’re here. Cheap hot chocolate in to-go cups big enough to drink a little and add enough vodka for a buzz without it showing up on your breath. The Well isn’t really a well, it’s a decorative one. A little more than 4ft from the ground to the top edge, 7ft from the ground to the top off the roof I’d wager, and the inside half full of dirt. To be honest it was probably 1/4 dirt and 1/4 cigarette butts.
Either way, perfect for a few nearly full-grown teens to sit in, ass in the ledge, feet inside. Shoulder to shoulder, the view looking down packed with pairs of Vans and Converse of varying wear and tear. It smells like Marlboro’s and fun.
My converse are green high tops. My only non-black pair, the only ones without holes in them and the wear and tear is 3/4 New Jersey, 1/4 Italy. It’s September, and I’m 17. Sitting in a fake well with 6 people in the middle of a shit parking lot outside an aging strip mall tacked onto the back of an old Grist Mill. The only occupants now are the lawyer upstairs, the Post Office on the opposite end of the building, and this tiny coffee shop out of which pours loud conversation and louder music.
This feeling I’ll never regret. The most basic of adventures and inspirations, migrating through the triple-capacity crowds of this one car garage space turned cafe-open mic spot. Shifting between playing drums for rando’s, grabbing a drink at the bar, getting cozy with strangers on the vintage couches and popping into the well for a smoke. Familiar faces and new ones blending together. Names? I know a few. More often than not I forget the name and remember the emotions.
The Well isn’t a real well, but it does hold something special.
-B
