The Monty Bar

There's a bar called Monty's on West Seventh Street in downtown L.A. It has no windows and you can't see the interior when you are standing on the sidewalk even though the door is always open. The signage outside advertises cocktails, sports TV, and pool. Monty's is in kind of a rough area and it was hard to guess exactly who might be in the place. It could be workers from the numerous construction sites in the vicinity or it could be Mexican gangbangers. Maybe it's an array of people strung out on heroin they purchased across the street or it's a bunch of cops who get together after work. It could also be Crips, Bloods, or grandmothers knitting. The only way to find out is by walking in there.

The place was calling me. Why does that always happen? Little dingy bars with wood-panelling have a way of doing that. There was no way I could know that it had a wood-panelled interior, but yet I was certain that it did. Finally I proved myself right by going in there last Friday afternoon. About eight people were inside the wood-panelled room which happened to be bigger than I would have expected. There was a jukebox against one wall and five pool tables lined up on the concrete floor. A few of the patrons were playing pool and the rest were seated at the bar. Most of the conversation in the room was in Spanish. The bartender sized me up from a distance and maneuvered towards me in a somewhat laborious manner. At first I thought she was pregnant, but then it appeared that her gait was the result of some type of injury. I asked for a Stoli on the rocks and she asked me for my ID.

My Stoli cost $4.50. I sipped it and stared at the TV while the other customers tried to figure out what I was doing there. Something about their manner indicated that they were not accustomed to seeing many strangers in the place. Or maybe they just weren't accustomed to seeing many unescorted white women in the place. A large Hispanic woman in tight clothes came near me to retrieve her bottle of beer. She looked me squarely in the face and gave me a disdainful smirk before returning to her pool game. Her apparent assessment of me reminded me of one made by a similar large Hispanic woman a number of years ago. I had been leaving a bachelor party at which I'd been dancing when a woman had arrived at the residence. She kept looking me up and down and saying, "Oh, there's the little ho you had for the party" in a loud, derisive manner. I had been wearing a skintight, hot pink dress with 5" spiked heels. Today at Monty's I was wearing a baggy T-shirt and workout pants..

How did this episode end up with me squaring off in a boxing ring with Francesca to keep my dignity?? Join www.TanyaDanielle.com now to read the story and see the full gallery!



- XXOO Tanya







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