No really

A hopping nightspot in Lewiston and the sad truth about Question 6

By Sherie Dyer

Recently a friend of mine told me about The Tunnel, a brand new night club in Lewiston. I laughed, and jokingly suggested we drive up and check it out over the weekend. Right, spend a Saturday night in Lewiston. Ha. But, it had been at least a year since I’d been to the twin cities, and, to be honest, I was interested. So last Saturday, putting all former opinions aside, we opted to abandon Portland, put on the Ritz, and with open minds make the 45-minute trek north.

Pulling into a great barren parking lot behind the Shaw’s Plaza at 8 p.m. told us we were early. But soon enough a mini caravan of trucks, sports cars, and beat up sedans started pouring in, and a large, beefy man emerged from the front door of the club, and started directing traffic with his flashlight. We sat undisturbed and amused. Assuming now was a better time than later, we got out of the car and tried to enter the club. The flashlight guy stopped us and said that they wouldn’t be open for another hour. Shocked by how many people were there already, we smiled and went to a neighboring bar.

A few drinks later, we ventured back to what looked like a carnival. With at least seven flashlight guys now, and a line of people a half mile long, it looked like a New York City opening. While negotiating how we were going to cut the line, I encountered a kind flashlight guy, who happened to be the owner. We were in.

Walking into this mega-dance Mecca with its modern industrial décor was awe inspiring. The dance floor was the size of a small house with a professional stage behind it. A psychedelic light show was provided for the back drop and the people were swarming in fast. The owner then led me on a brief tour while my friend took his own. Two full bars on the first floor, with an additional beer\Jell-O-shot bar in the corner. The Jell-O bar during 18-plus nights turns into a mini store. Everything from glow sticks to condoms to tampons can be had. It all seemed like such a progressive side to Maine — not to mention Lewiston for God’s sake.

Upstairs was a mezzanine that held a spacious lounge and another bar. Open railings cater to patrons who like to watch the dance floor. A sound-proof DJ booth and even more round tables complete the nightclub atmosphere. The light system was certainly top dollar and the staffing was high. The music was a mix of top 40 hits from the last 10 years. We were having a good time.

When we had reached our responsible limit we decided to leave. On the way out the door someone yelled to my friend, “See you later queer boy.” Suddenly we were back in Lewiston, and back in the Maine that couldn’t pass Question 6.