Caps, gowns, depravity and reflection in the world’s worst bar.
In the movie Green Room, a band of punk rockers sign on to play a show at a seemingly normal joint, but when they get inside the bar reveals itself a Neo-Nazi Skinhead bar. The walls close in around them and the night devolves into terror while the band tries desperately to escape.
I could not help but think of Green Room as I sat on the top floor of Buford’s on a particularly horrifying Saturday night.
Earlier that day, thousands of UT Undergrads took the stage and received diplomas after four years of hard work and even harder drinking.
Tonight, unburdened of all responsibility, they have nowhere to be but Buford’s. It’s an infamous undergrad bar with a maze-like footprint, a raucous dance floor and me, an outside observer on an anthropological survey.
I grabbed a spot upstairs early, a perfect location for documenting the tangled mess of bodies below. Little huddles of friends materialized, creating crop circles of awkwardness across the dance floor. It was already overflowing early in the night, so the crowds crept up the stairs till the support beams bucked under their weight.
When I arrived at 10pm, the bar was almost quiet. Sure there were lots of students, but there were open seats, easy walkways and plenty of opportunities to get a drink. By 11pm, there was no escape.
Quickly, my table was colonized by mechanical engineering students, after four years of studying the rhythms of a night out were clearly new to them.
They tried to tie their stoles around their foreheads to signal a night devolving into debauchery, but the silk slipped off their greasy foreheads and fell to the ground; only to be trampled underfoot.
After losing my table, the only thing to do was attempt to dance the evening away. I looked down on my friends from my eye in the sky. Mario’s blue Minnesota Timberwolves jersey stuck out in a sea of burnt orange. Seeking some sweaty camaraderie, I descended the stairs and joined them.
Mario and his Los Angeles compatriot Cade recently lost a friendly wager on a first round playoff series and were entering their 11th of 14 hours at Buford’s. I could sense, through texts, Mario needed me for moral support as the two of them closed out their night.
Finally surrounded by friends, I found comfort in familiar dance floor anthems. Fetty Wap’s “Again” rattled the speakers followed by a tasteless remix of Disturbia. Recent diploma recipients in tightly wound circles exchanged every word of an Usher song released before they could read.
A nearby bachelor party in silver wigs makes a desperate attempt to escape out the back entrance, while a cadre of Tri Delts block their exit. A string of natural sciences majors snake through the crowd holding ranch waters high above their heads, every thumping rhythm is another tequila splash down my back.
Mario is dancing next to me, miraculously tapping into a level of delirium that inspires jealousy. His Karl Anthony-Townes Timberwolves jersey is looking more game worn with each song. This is the kind of euphoric release engendered by drinks on the house. Or it could have something to do with the sexual performance enhancer his friends slipped into his drink an hour earlier.
In opposition, there is a hopelessness growing on Cade’s face. His brows drop lower and his eyes dart around the room. The dance floor, which has been full for some time, is drawing in more patrons. The stairs on either side have become stalemates and the bar crowd has blocked all exits. I can see it in Cade’s eyes and feel it in my chest, the walls are closing in. We try for a desperate escape.
Dylan, a Minnesota fan on the winning end of this bet, leads the way. Just four beers in since 9pm, he is sharp enough to lead and drunk enough to apply the necessary carelessness. Mario marches behind him, then Cade, then myself. It’s a circuitous gauntlet to make it off the floor. Every person in our path has listlessness or pure rage in their eyes. Every shoulder brush is followed by an invitation to fight. Every step finds you in another photo op. I certainly appeared in the background or foreground of no fewer than 48 group hook ‘em photos.
Once we make it up the stairs, the outdoor breeze kisses our foreheads and the porch beckons to us. But before we taste freedom, Mario veers onto an off ramp and heads into the bathroom and I fear I may never see my friend again. I reach out but his hand slips through mine.
“Leave him!” Cade says in the broken tone of a man going on 12 hours at Buford’s.
Sam leads us past the bathroom and out onto the patio where puffs of cigarette smoke obscure the nearby downtown towers. Out here the crowd is light and borderline peaceful.
I find a chair with a back and relish on the escape from Buford’s hellish interior. Just as I am settling into a stasis, Cade calls me over to the ledge and says “you have to see this.”
Beneath the giant sombrero attached to Buford’s facade is a glimpse into depravity I can’t forget. A tidal wave of limbs and sweat stained button downs. Coeds jostling for position, waves of drunkards washing up onto the steps of Buford’s, held at bay by two increasingly desperate bouncers.
This was a scene out of a survival film, where the privileged early arrivals sat above the desperate entries mocking their futile attempts to enter the safety of Buford’s. It was an absolute madhouse, a failure of human decency on every level. I tried desperately to get the attention of the students down below, for it was already 1 A.M. and there was no way they would make it in before last-call. But my cries fall on deaf ears.
Why were so many people trying so mightily to get in this forsaken bar? I was inside, and I was miserable! It’s sweaty, sacrilegious and stuffed to the brim.
Recoiling from the inhumanity, I stumbled backwards out of view of the crowds below. Suddenly, there is a familiar hand on my shoulder. It’s Mario. Alive and not-so-well, with his 15th beer of the day in his hand. He was nearly to the end of a 14 hour journey and began to vocally yearn for the outside world. He spoke of Kerbey Lane, chocolate chip pancakes and the warm bed that awaits him at home. While he speaks, his eyes soak in the room.
This night, without a singular shred of doubt, is the worst experience I have ever had in a bar. But Mario's eyes reveal appreciation.
Buford’s has given him so much tonight. Cement mixer shots, unlimited beers and irreplaceable memories with friends. His expression says he will never return here but will always miss it. Like that of a college graduate, thoroughly soaking in the memories of a place once called home, all the while knowing that your best days are behind you and the life ahead, while comfortable, will never be this exciting again.
Inside the bar, I can see two sweaty frat bros embrace tenderly. Dewey Coronas in their hands dripping onto each other’s shoulder blades. They hold on tight to this moment. When they release, I swear the uplights reveal tears welling in their eyes. Even from my perspective as a miserable outsider, I can see what this moment means to them.
Then, one of the guys, the taller of the two, slaps the other in the penis.
I break out of the trance and glance back to Mario where a tattooed man in sunglasses is showing Mario naked pictures of the women in his life.
“Nice,” says Mario. “Which one is your wife?”
“This hoe right here,” the man says after swiping past 6 different scantily clad women.
It’s my cue to leave and I descend down the back stairs out of the bar into the cool comfort of night. In my wake, a night most patrons won’t remember and I wish to forget.