Freedom Point: Part III

There are other kinds of people there too, of course. Mostly what my friend likes to refer to as white trash, hicks, posers and wannabes, and weirdos in general. I know they're not the majority of the people here, but they're the unfortunate minority that stands out the most. And strangely enough, they're the ones that end up popular. In a small town, people think they can stand out more since there is less perceived competition, and so they act out. Then, they see other people, then they act out more, wanting more attention than the other guy. In the end, people end up acting outrageously, and others admire them for the balls to do so. They do things like yelling at people randomly out car windows or picking fights for frivolous reasons.

Most of these people are adolescents and people who never grow up. They want to be “hip” and “cool”. From what I can see, they want attention through which they can gain admiration. They act tough. They act black. They consider the word “wigger” a racial slur. It's not. It's just a word that refers to half-brained idiots who aren't capable of visually evaluating the general melanin content of their own skin.
And these are the people who frequent Freedom Point.

***

It's about nine, when Freedom Point, the arcade/pool hall/dance club starts to get “crowded”. There are about two dozen people scattered about, inside and outside this teenage hellhole. From the outside, with the garish lamps and the strobe lights on the display shelf of the window, the place looks like a gaudy novelty gift store. Inside, the place is divided into three sections. One is the area between the front counter (where they sell admission tickets for two dollars each) and the main entrance. Past that is the arcade/pool hall, where most people are. Further beyond that is a dimly lit dance floor with a disco ball hanging from the ceiling, separated from the pool tables and arcade games by a wall with a large entryway. The place isn't much to look at, and I realize that there is much less to this place than I originally thought, but I approach the counter and ask the guy behind some questions anyway.

“The hardest part of this job is dealing with all the kids.” He also mentions that he and his wife runs this place, while the latter's father rents the space for the business. They don't seem too glad to be there. They've only been working here for the six months that it's been open, during which this place became an institution in Seymour.