By: Addie Lawrence, Editor
Wednesday night – the upperclassmen rise from their study rooms, from Milliken and the library. Anticipation permeates the air. Tests and papers are pushed aside, responsibilities forgotten. They wait for the clock to strike 10 (any earlier would be too soon).
The brave walk in small packs, searching for the light from the scattered street lamps throughout Spartanburg. Others pile into cars with one reluctant driver. They’re all headed, like moths to a flame, to downtown Spartanburg. First, they’ll stop at Delaney’s.
Spartanburg’s quintessential Irish pub, Delaney’s glows with warmth as auburn as the beer served in tall glasses. Students gathered in a booth in the corner lean toward each other, their conversations pulling them closer, as intertwined as threads. These students are surrounded by an aura of exclusivity, and their beers sit nearly untouched on the table.
Others recline, their laughter open and inviting. And still others stand in the section behind the bar. Lights dangle from the ceiling, and the crowd is thick. Trains of people carve paths through the crowd. One guy wears a shirt featuring a panda holding guns. He mimics the pose of the panda, firing finger guns above the crowd.
Glasses are raised, beer is spilled and the noise is voluminous. Awkward hugs are given to acquaintances and genuine hugs are given to friends. But as the beers are thrown back and the hour turns to midnight, the ritual is still not complete.
The great migration must first occur – the movement from Delaney’s to Main Street Pub.
People linger on the outside of the bar, leaning against bricks splashed gray and dirty white. Cigarette smoke hovers in a cloud. Pulsing music resounds in the dim-lighted bar. Groups with gauges and triple-pierced ears sit on the barstools, surrounded by college students shouting for their friends.
Everclear slushies – concoctions of sugar, poor decision-making and a quick burst of happiness followed by immense regret – make their rounds. They’re blue and red, as innocent to the eye as snow cones.
As the music rolls on with the night, people dance or observe the dancers from the corner like wallflowers in peeling paint. Conversation is muffled. Selfies are taken. A group of friends dominates a corner and two tables, turning the flash on and off, posing with their arms around each other and their elbows jutting out at the sides. What’s the perfect angle to capture the clean lines in a flannel shirt?
The energy is tangible, but the clock doesn’t stop. Group by group they leave, their arms draped over their friends’ shoulders, the laughter and yawns audible. Some will sleep soundly, some will wait for the spinning to settle and some will find the willpower to finish that paper or project that’s been waiting for them.
As the last of them dwindle back to campus, Village residents hear the chaos of those returning, still caught in the ambience of pint night. Eventually the noise dies.
Thursday – upperclassmen wake up to their alarms. They slog class with dark shadows under their eyes and not an ounce of regret.
