It is 2:05 am on a Thursday - or, I guess it's a Friday now. but it was a Thursday when I got here - and I am being dragged, one hand on the collar of my shirt, one on the waist of my jeans, to the door of the Hotel Vernon. I am thrown, bodily, from that red door into the gutter of Kelly Square, which was a 17-and-a-half way intersection at the time (which I would venture was the most efficient way to combine 3 one-way streets, three major urban arteries, one gas station, and one auxiliary interstate highway). I deserve this completely. For, you see, I am belligerent, a moment ago holding still and shouting at the top of my lungs, determined in all obstinacy to hold down one barstool until daylight, or Sunday evening if they'll let me. But the bars close at 2 (last call at 1:30. Puritanical fucks. Fucking assholes.). My body is brimming with pathogens unknown to science - medicine-resistant superbugs from the frosted mugs, peanut bucket, and pool table all racing to begin the self-replicating processes throughout my body to crush my immune system and ultimately destroy the human race.
It is 10:45pm on a Friday. The Vernon has been closed for nearly two full years. It is bustling respectfully, pool balls clacking, music is playing from the jukebox at a reasonable volume. The lighting is not "dim and grungy," it is "soft and atmospheric." The crowd is the same, but a little older, somehow a little wearier. The ship room isn't open yet, but the book is open - if you got a bill, you can sign up and use the room, any day they're open - Thursday through Saturday, 3PM to midnight.
A few weeks after its re-opening, it would change its name to "The Vernon on the Square." The men's bathroom still smells like piss, detectable from a little ways away. But the beers are still $1 for Narragansett, Rolling Rock, or PBR.
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