The Phoenix

There is a place in the Chicken Capital of the World where the hooligans gather to feel at home. It is place where everyone is welcome, but only certain people dare enter. There is no judgment, no criticism, only music, art, and mosh pits.

Before you even walk through the dirty, glass door, the smell of sweat, dirty leather, old boots, and spray paint mix like a toxic gas in your nostrils. The electronic music of old school video games is muffled in the background by the garage metal or punk band playing on the not yet visible stage. Colorful graffiti covers every inch of the walls and some of the dirty wood floor. Beautiful pieces of art sprayed there by the local youth trying to avoid going home to their abusive parents or an empty house. This is a place of art and music, a place to get out your frustrations with like-minded peers.

A tall, elderly, grey haired man sits quietly behind an old counter with peeling red and blue paint and a sign hanging crookedly above his head reading “snacks” in fading painted letters. He is the humble owner of this establishment, his name is Tom. He has created a safe haven for the troubled youth of this old country town. He makes little money, but that is not why he bought this old, run-down theatre building. He cares about us just as we care about him.

As you proceed to walk down a slanted ramp-like hallway out onto the pit, the ceiling rises above you to ever 25 feet. Decorated with pink, gold, and pale blue flowers and stripes, it seems put of place in this grungy, smelly, graffiti covered theatre. There is a modest stage strewn with miss matched speakers and amplifiers blaring the music of the band playing that night. Some garage band or another plays on stage, sweating in the heat of the bright theatre stage lights. They don’t make much money, but, like Tom, they are there because they care about the Phoenix Theatre. They are having the time of their lives. Directly across from the stage and on the second story balcony are rows of red velvet theatre chairs, these usually remain empty. Lining the graffitied walls are skate board ramps, only used for skate boarding during the day, that reach six feet up the walls. If it is a busy night, people perch atop them, slide down, or run up slipping all the way. Everyone is having a wonderful time, no matter if it is a full house, or only a few people are lined up at the front of the stage heads rocking and arms in the air.

The mosh pits are my favorite part. Elbows flying, heads banging, boots stomping, voices yelling, and people laughing. A flurry of leather, spikes, and mohawks. Yes, it is violent, and yes, I always limp out with a few bruises, but it is all in good fun. No one is there to cause any real harm. If you fall, someone helps you up, and if you are small, people are mindful of you. There is an unspoken understanding. This is a community of society-labeled weirdoes and outcasts. We come here to feel a sense of togetherness, to forget, if only for a moment, about the stress and chaos of the world outside. We come here to feel accepted.