The huddled masses wait in line. The huddles masses refuse to cover their legs with anything else but sparkles and moisturizer (for the ladies) and khakis (gents/any ladies who wear khakis). They wait patiently or not patiently or with bummed cigarettes for the hope that their ears will soon be draped in the sounds of Katy Perry or Robyn-pop stars with delicately placed y’s and modern haircolors. Those on this line have chosen to gamble for the promise of a great night, a “great” that includes a pantheon of options which may also end in falling in the subway tracks or text message crying. However, perhaps they will find somebody to bring home tonight, somebody whose criminal record they are not aware of. This is the largest square in the velvet quilt of Friday joys.
I find myself a sheep in a sea of more attractive sheep, a Forever 21 mannequin, a girl who needs more liquor and judging by the lot of it, more “BOOBS” and “HAIRSPRAY.” The huddled masses move closer to a gargantuan bouncer, a hefty pawed man who looks like he grew up slapping things out of people’s hands.
The bouncer stamps my wrist and while I know that it will never come off lest I lick it, tongue full of acid that I have, I enjoy the navy blue star mark it leaves nonetheless. He looks into my eyes and I see something like him, imagining himself shoving a fist deep into the jaw of the man behind me.
I enter a sea of men, hair spiked and chest beating. I think to myself with great hope “someday soon, my feet will be covered in beer.” The men hand each other tiny plastic cups of whiskey or, for those with credit cards and hearts that know no limits, Patron. They are celebrating something, maybe Vin Diesel. Gracefully, they resist the desire to smash the empty cans on their head and instead grunt at women waiting at bar counters or the girl friends of their friends. Their GRUNTS sound like conversation points-
- I like Carly Rae Jepsen (sentences may seem louder than they appear on page)
- YOOU WANNA DRINK
- bark bark bark
- I went to college and now have this job
- you. pretty. me. think. so
-or just whatever attempts that might be made to lick someone’s mouth.
I make the statistics in my head: one out five people in this bar gets emotional at the ASPCA commercials. I try to weave through the crowd with a plastic cup full of not nearly enough beer, as nearly enough would fill the Grand Canyon (not a bar, a PLACE a PLACE!). I avoid eye contact with the kind of men who can afford to have somebody else fix their sink/has a mirror on their bedroom ceiling. I delicately lift the hand of the gentleman I am with—a “sorry, I really like this guy who can read” kind of thing that I don’t think translates in hand gestures. I pantomime opening a book. They drool and scream ENTOURAGE at me until I have to go to wait on line for the bathroom. If I were a millionaire I would have laser lights with sports facts or Snapple facts on them installed at this very bar.
Waiting for the bathroom, I try to mouth “YOUR SHIRT! IT’S ALMOST FALLING OFF” to the girls in front of me. Their shirts are falling off. One girl, who I believed to be a Libra, maybe spits in my eye, maybe applies a heavy gloss made of BP oil.
I dully watch a fight between two identical hi-lo sheer dresses to Ke$ha. I try to find a feral cat to throw at them, but all I can find is a guy who has read Angels and Demons six times. I give the bartender my last eight dollars, which will either buy a million beers or a backwashed glass of somebody who at least takes the time to vote. I have to scream to be heard, and find myself screaming even if I don’t want to be heard.
-A guest verse by Ludacris. Like I looked straight into the eyes of the neutralizer in Men in Black, I forget all and find myself relaxed, happy, and looking at the stars.
-“Has anybody seen The Hangover Two?” I shout this as a conversation point and then we all have a hearty laugh over how “Twitter is fucking stupid.”
-I watch public displays of affection like I am a fifteen year old boy watching The Vow
-When people dance, I wonder if they watched “sweating with the oldies” with their grandmother like I did
-When people dance, I shiver
-I am very afraid to touch any surfaces
I grow tired. I am covered in a sticky sheen of Coors Light and cynicism. I take my companion and head back to something quieter, with softer pillows and the pounding of music still ghostly in my ears.
That night, I dream of sugar plums, which I believe to be the secret ingredient in Axe body spray.
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