21 & Cool for a Night

I was at the raised round booth with a solid wood table at a back corner of Yesterdays Bar & Grill with my improv troupe.
Usually we met in someone’s apartment, a place payed for by magic, with little furniture, including a few overturned card board boxes hidden under decorative cloths, home of half empty cups of cold coffee and overflowing ash trays. If one were to look up from their perch while sitting near such a table they would notice a quarter stick of sandalwood incense with it’s wormy ashes below, stuck in a narrow wooden burner angled precariously on a dusty window ledge.
That night we decided to trade in our best earnings yet to celebrate after a fantastic show, sure of our genius, happy and hip. Our audience had been large and appreciative, gathering around us to offer compliments and eager conversation even before the stage transformed back to elevated seating.
We naively assumed this was the beginning of something big. Our era in the spotlight lasted only a few more weeks. Off stage we were a mess of disunity, miscommunication, lack of collective vision and hurt feelings.
I almost got away from the point.
There we were, celebrating, hunched over tortilla chips piled high with melted cheddar, diced tomatoes, guacamole. Clutching half pound burgers dripping ketchup, mustard, and mayo, thick with pickles and onions on a fat white bread bun, steak fries on the side, we spoke in half sentences, each one meant to prove the originality of our wit. We sipped sugary sodas between bites, jokes, and beneath playful glances whenever our eyes met.
I felt like I was in a commercial. I wanted more.