Two years ago, I was a senior in high school mentally preparing myself for college. This preparation included saying dragged-out goodbyes, overstuffing mammoth IKEA duffle bags and watching TikToks about how to properly have fun in college. I saw compilations of cool-looking 20-year-olds dancing in bars with disco lights and people screaming the lyrics to “Dancing Queen” by ABBA and doing their best Dougie. Under the blankets in my childhood bedroom, my eyes sparkled.
When I finally arrived in Chapel Hill, my first Saturday night was spent at the place all the first-years were talking about: Still Life.
As I would soon learn, the Still Life experience does not begin in the building itself, but outside on the sidewalk, in a line that stretches all the way down to Four Corners. The bouncers, especially because we had ample time to observe their refrigerator-like movements, were scary. Not just because they were massive, but because their suits were so tight I could almost make out nipples. Someone in line whispered that they have to have a permit to handle those big Sharpies.
Once I did my time in the line, I climbed up a set of creaky metal stairs, feeling like Jack on a tetanus-riddled beanstalk. And when I got to the top, I saw the giants. Six-foot-something 30- to 40-year-old men were everywhere, lurking and thumping about.
I glanced around and saw an old man in the corner wearing a Star Wars Jedi costume. He looked at me, winked and started gliding towards me. My friends and I ran away towards a dance floor that looked just like the ones from my summer premonitions.
But unlike the TikTok night clubs, to get there we had to hold hands like a paper doll chain. We squeezed through sweaty bodies as a drink splashed onto my face. I was baptized, my friends told me. Hallelujah.
There was no room to dance, so we all just stood there and smiled at each other as “Just Wanna Rock” by Lil Uzi Vert started to play. When the beat dropped, a muscular man jumping around with his bros slammed into my back. I had arrived at the big leagues. Still Life, a D1 contact sport.
I was shoved this way and that, submitting myself to the ebb and flow of the crowd. It was like I was floating in the ocean — right before a tsunami. One of my friends told me that the owner was considering renaming the club Sardine Life.
Then, “FE!N” by Travis Scott came on, and I rushed to the bathroom to escape the impending chaos. If the dance floor was hell, the bathroom was heaven. My sweaty self went to the sink to splash water on my face and smudge the ink from the X on my hand all the way down my arm. Even from the bathroom, those poetic, Joycean Travis Scott lyrics wouldn't stop pounding in my head.
