Personal Narrative Essay: Drinking At The 42 Club

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Shimmering lights lit up the crowded streets of New York City like the stars of the night sky; they made up for the fact that you couldn’t see the real ones. My feet felt like concrete blocks attached to my legs as I walked, I guess you could call it, through numerous groups of locals and tourists, all I’m sure who could tell easily that I had quite an edge. They didn’t know why, and frankly neither did I. All I knew was that I wanted to be by her side.
I had first encountered Mabel one random night when I stumbled upon the 42 Club after leaving work, grimy and dirty from fixing up snobby, rich guys' cars all day and hating my life. Drinking was difficult to do ever since the Prohibition started; I wasn't a very sneaky person so laying low to find a juice joint wasn't something I enjoyed too much. But that night, after my dim-witted wet blanket of a boss decided that I needed to stay three hours over my shift so I could tune up his beat-up jalopy, I craved nothing more than a bit of hooch and a pretty dame by my side.
At a quick glance, you would never be able to realize the 42 Club was a
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My parents, who already resent me for dropping out of college to be a mechanic, decided that I was unfit to live with the rest of society. My normal self would have been outraged, but the me living on this planet without Mabel doesn't care; I'm not with her, so what does it matter. The doctors and therapists here say writing about that night will help, but why would it? They say reminding myself over and over of what happened to Mabel would do something, make me come to terms with it; continuously thinking about how she was raped and slaughtered and wrongfully taken from the world she loved will make it better. That it will make me better. It doesn't, it won't; I just want her

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