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Flat Iron

“Oh, hey Matt, what’s going on? I haven’t seen you in like forever!”

“Yeah, I know. I hate this fucking place.”

Flat Iron. Guh. Flat Iron is one of a few 4 am bars serving the Crotch of Chicago. It’s a huge space with two bars, 4 or 5 pool tables, a ton of seating, a digital jukebox, and everyone you’ve ever met ever. And, as far as I can tell, no one really wants to be there.

Seriously, every time I go there I run into everyone I know in Chicago. And everyone bemoans the fact that we are meeting in Flat Iron. Why do we come here? What’s the point if we all hate it so much? My guess is that the drive to come to Flat Iron stems from the fact that at 2 am, you are at that perfect state of drunk when you don’t want to go home because you think that something wonderful could happen. It could, but it won’t, and it most certainly won’t happen at Flat Iron.

I can count on one finger the amount of times I have had fun at Flat Iron. And that’s really only because I had just came from a dance party started by a fart and we had sharpies. Yet I keep going back to this dump. Every week. Again and again.

My favorite story from Flat Iron happened a couple of weeks ago. After the bartender finished hitting on my friend, I asked for a PBR. She walked to the end of the bar, opened something, peered around, then meandered back to where I was standing. She looked at me and wandered to the other end of the bar, found a PBR and walked back. She pops it open, sets it in front of me. “2.50” she says. I hand her a 20 and turns around. She turns back and slurs, “What did you have again?” I show her my PBR. “Right,” she says. She turns around. Back. “How much did you give me?” “A twenty,” I respond. “Right,” as she turns around. Once more she turns back. “I should get 17.50 in change.” “Right.” She turns around and I get my change. God, I hate Flat Iron.

See you next Saturday.

Flat Iron before 2 am: FTL.

The walk to Flat Iron at 2 am: FTW.

Flat Iron after 2 am: WTF.