One of my favorite places on Duval Street is the bar seating that faces the street, at Caroline's. Patrons can sit a few feet above the heads of passersby who stroll Duval, looking for action. Caroline's is also across the street from Fat Tuesday, which from what I've observed, trys to attract the younger crowd interested in dancing and drinking. They do their best to perpetuate the Duval party atmosphere. From the perch at Caroline's, my friends and I sip drinks, eat grouper sandwiches, and watch what goes on across the street. For those who care, these raised seats offer the perfect vantage point for cleavage viewing, should the unsuspecting tourist walk by wearing the right kind of shirt. I know, it's wrong. I just thought I'd offer that up.
Fat Tuesday Key West is also one of those bars that offer the right mystique, the correct blend of boozy abandon and hit list of cool pop music (very hard to achieve) that makes underage kids absolutely crave entrance. Perhaps it's the bouncer/doorkids who sport sideways baseball caps and knee-level t-shirts that makes teenagers think they can get in? Perhaps it's that the front of Fat Tuesdays is totally open, transparent, affording a tempting view to all on the outside, of what endless joy and abandon is occurring inside? The hit list of cool pop music pounding out the non-walls and onto the street? Whatever it is, Fat Tuesday seems to attract lots of would-be customers whom they just can't let in. 
Take the other night. I was sipping my Club Soda on my perch at Caroline's when a gaggle of girls inched into my peripheral vision from the right. I noticed them right away because something wasn't right about the way they were walking. I mean, at first, out of the corner of my eye, it looked like a tangled herd of broken giraffes stumbling up the sidewalk, inching along with great effort. Their heads bobbed not smoothly or rhythmically, but jarringly, out of sync with anything at all. Their arms swung out at crazy sudden swooping angles, their legs lurching ahead of or lagging behind their bodies, disconnected from the holistic walking process, a frame behind. They moved along as one being, clinging to each other, trying to keep moving forward, helping each other. I swung my head to get a better look at this large creaky machine whose parts were limbs, heads, dresses and yes...the cause of it all... Very. High. Heels.
The girls made it in their high heels to the low wall in front of Hard Rock Cafe, which has sportingly made their wall low, wide and very sittable. Hard Rock Cafe is the next block over from Fat Tuesday, so they were almost there. Perhaps they were resting up for what they knew would be a hurdle much greater than painful high heels: gaining entrance to the bar. They had been eyeing the wall for many paces now, and when they reached it the machine fell apart, breaking into parts which became four girls dressed up for a night on the town. They were immaculate, obviously having taken hours and hours to get ready. I wonder if they bought the Very High Heels or if they borrowed them. As they seem not to have learned yet, the secret to wearing VHH is in the fit.
Anyway, the girls went through varying degrees of trying to soothe their injured feet: one girl was actually rubbing her ankles, another kicked off her VHH the second she sat down. One compromised by letting the shoes dangle off her toes, not allowing them to completely fall off and hit the pavement. They looked like a commercial for sore feet, or whatever treats sore feet...Dr. Scholl's? Flip Flops?
The machine eventually ammassed itself and chugged down the last bit of sidewalk between the Wall of Mercy and Fat Tuesday. Now the fun part! ID Checker guy calls the manager, manager explains why they can't come in, they listen, the machine falters, then breaks apart as each girl has a different idea of what the group should do in response to this offending denial of service. One girl, let's call her the huffy one, stomps off in her VHH down the street. Another, let's call her the one who apparently didn't have enough time to find or else couldn't decide on the right outfit to go with her VHH, since she was wearing a horrid denim skirt and old t-shirt with her very fancy indeed high heels...she just stood there, the victim of indecision and slow thought processes. The third and fourth girls worked tag team on the manager, I guess debating the law, or questioning his ID-reading abilities. They too left, in the direction of Huffy One, but not before making sure Slow-Indecisive Girl was with them. Tag Team couldn't give it up, so they offered some more enlightening points of discussion as they hobbled away in their VHH, puctuating their speech with hand gestures. Which was quite a feat, considering that the hands and arms were completely necessary to the overall functioning of The Machine, making the Very High Heels work and all.
I tried to keep my eye on the girls as they hobbled away in search of a party. I really wanted to know if they ever got in anyplace. I wonder how far they got before they ditched the VHH and went barefoot. I wonder if they just went home and drank Mom and Dad's wine and had a girls' night at home. Did they swear off high heels forever or did they resolve to get some that fit? Well, there is a good chance that at least one of the girls learned something that night: if the shoe hurts, don't wear it. And bless the Hard Rock Cafe and their Wall of Mercy.4ppl Online Dating Personals
