The Sister and I head out to the bus stop for a short trip further downtown, her tottering in her heeled boots, me sliding in my wedges. We endure 5 seconds of a gaggle of teenage girls warbling Macklemore, again reminding me why I used to hate riding public transit on a Saturday night and why I am not, however from-American-Apparel my shirt might be, 20.
I smile my second-least-convincing smile, square my shoulders and thrust the girls out.
"I don't have my ID.. I'm sorry. I know I should but.. well. I didn't. I don't - I'm old enough. I'm just old, actually," I say, more than a little pathetically.
"Stand outside, please."
Sighing, I jostle my way back outside, only to be told to come back in again.
"Talk to my friend over there."
Dutifully, I walk to the back of the entrance where an identically-dressed man, at least 4 years my junior looks at me reproachfully.
"You understand why we have to do this, right? If you get hurt or something goes wrong in there and we have to call the cops, we'll both get in trouble."
"Yes, totally. I get it. I understand."
"I'm her younger sister!" TS pipes up at this point.
"You don't have anything on you at all that says your age? Nothing?"
I rifle through my tiny clutch, coming up with only my bus pass and my Visa.
"Sorry, no. This bus pass says I work for the Government? Not too many 18-year-olds there!" I lamely grin at him in what I hope is an endearing move.
I make motions to leave, but the bouncer waves me back.
"I will make an exception for you - but just for you, and just this once, okay?"
"Thank you. I appreciate that," I nod, chastised and head into the murky depths of the club, an odd combination of relief, displeasure and self-satisfaction settling over me. Still got it! A young waif with a cash box asks me who I'm here to see.
"Um, no one. I mean, my friends. Not, like, a show or anything."
She grimaces slightly but jerks her head back towards the club, indicating we can go in.
"I feel like a rock star!" I giggle-whisper to TS. I have had quite a lot of rum at this point.
We descend the stairs into... nothingness.
Well, not nothingness exactly, but a sporadically-attended bar. First of all, it's very clear that our friend is not here, despite the fact that C said she was at the bar a half-hour prior. A quick glance at the posters on the wall and a look at the clientele help us to unravel a mystery that would make Benedict Cumberbatch gasp - we are in the wrong club.
Just goes to show, you can't always trust random strangers outside a loud bar to help you find your way. Shame, that.
We sneak back outside (so as not to be embarrassed by the sartorially-twinned bouncers) and stand once again, staring at the street. The crowd parts slightly and now we can easily see our mistake and slip into the bar/club that we were supposed to be at.
"Yay! You made it! We thought you were dead!... The band's about to start..."
Oh yes, there was a band.
If I had been in my teen years, this would have been a fine way to spend my evening. In high school, I dated an audiophile who was heavily involved with the punk scene, and my friends embraced the pop-punk stylings of the 90s, including all One-hundred-and-eighty-two Blinks. But 15 years later, it's too loud, I'm too old, let's get drunk.
Honestly, the group was pretty good, but the place is so tiny and the goal of the event (to say goodbye to a friend) was completely hampered by the issue their performance presented (nobody could hear anybody say anything to anyone) that no one in our group was really feeling them. Plus one of them took his shirt off. And it was the death-scream kind of punk. And it was only 10 o'clock. So, obviously our good friend alcohol decides to liven things up. I manage to order the most complicated drink on the menu because I'm a girl-drink drunk.
Basically my life.
Once I see this drink comes with not one but TWO sticks of fruit, I'm sold. It takes 13 minutes to make it, costs $11 and necessitates me writing down its name ("The Red Riding Hood") on a piece of paper to be understood over the din, but it is Totally worth it. I love drinks that can give you a buzz and an ice cream headache all at once. Y'know, people were mocking me silently (or loudly, again, can't tell) as they watched the grizzled Russian bartender put together my witch's brew but I swear, every girl's eyes for three barstools on either side of me glazed over with delight when I was presented my prize.
|Sparkles may have been added for effect.|
Or a unicorn pissed in this. Either way- magical!
I looked up pitifully into the eyes of yet another bouncer, sighed and laid it out.
"Look, I don't have my ID. Nothing at all. I'm sorry. I'm lame and don't do this very often, obviously, okay?"
He smiled at me "What's your birthdate?"
I told him.
"What star sign does that make you?"
"Good enough for me."
This? Is why bars are better than clubs. Fact.
The place was still loud but talkable-loud and we had a lovely time, throwing back drinks until any talk of foundations, basements, water leakage, and sewage were far far behind me, replaced by vodka-cranberries and Rhianna assuring me she continues to find love in a hopeless place.
I said goodbye to C (though we have yoga tonight so no big goodbyes or anything yet) and TS and I collapsed into the nearest cab.
The next day was spent sprawled out on the couch, watching DVDs of Happy Endings and eating, literally, the biggest breakfast I have ever cooked myself. I felt like a snake.
And now the clock's struck midnight and I'm back to being a Cinderella, dealing with debt and eating frozen pizza for dinner. But good weekend, kids. Good weekend.