“Want to go out tonight, or are you over it?” asks Paul textily.
In my underpants, getting ready for a sulky night in, I reply with an abrupt “no”. As an afterthought I add “I’m going to have a quiet night in, to see if I can recoup the money for my parking fine by not going out.”
Paul won’t have any of this, and comes back with a few reasons (none of them very good) as to why we should hit the town anyway. Not needing all that much encouragement, I shrug some clothes on and the night begins.
We catch a train to the Valley from my place after having a few pre-drinks. Not much happens on the train, although in hindsight that was probably because pre-drinks had taken away a fair amount of cognitive ability. Some dude is drinking cans of Jack Daniels on the train, and I mention to Paul that we have to get hoodies and do that too, if only to look rebellious and cool.
Once we get off the train we head straight to The Wickham where there’s a huge line — four people is huge for the Wickham — and there’s a cover charge. Paul groans and says matter of factly that if the Wick’s charging, everywhere else will be. I take his word for it and we hand over some arbitrary amount of cash. Seven dollars or so, which is arbitrary enough.
When we get inside the place is packed with every flavour of person. The DJ is spinning an awful lot of ’80s and early ’90s hits, and the screens are advertising that it’s Madonna’s 50th birthday. Suddenly $7.00 doesn’t feel quite so lame.
The night’s enjoyable enough, but pretty average. About half way through I drag Paul to the bar for Absinthe shots to see if we can’t make it a little bit more interesting. I have two, he has one, the world suddenly becomes that little bit less cold.
Late into the morning some dude (“The Trash”) comes up and attaches himself to me like leprosy. We make out for a bit, and then I decide that I don’t want to take this boy home with me. I feign disinterestedness for a bit, and after that doesn’t work I take the boy home with me.
It’s five o’clock and there’s this guy in my house, I really don’t want to be in this situation. I put him in a bed, make him go to sleep, and sit around wondering how I got to this point. Paul comes home shortly after, and we have an emergency discussion in the half renovated kitchen — he doesn’t stop laughing even though I sternly tell him to shut up at least three times, and he goes to bed somewhat unhelpfully.
I do the most sensible thing I can think of, which is setting my alarm for eight under the pretence of needing to go to work. This works well enough, and I have a massive episode of déjà vu when the alarm starts chiming.
It’s cold, It’s awkward, and it’s eight o’clock. I tell the boy to put on some pants and go away, then he steals my wallet. I’m too busy not noticing to notice, and close the door behind him with a good riddance kind of sigh.
Later that day when I can’t find my cash, the pieces start to fit together, and I rage under the guise of serene calm for about ten minutes before calling up to cancel my cards. All I really want to do is cry. I try to calculate how much money I must have had sitting out like that, and the result is disappointingly high — at least ? times more than I made in the last week, is for sure.
WIth not much else to do, Paul shouts me lunch and we get back to our Dr. Who marathon. Season two, episode eight; The doctor’s lost his TARDIS, and something’s posessing the inhabitants of the Sanctuary base and turning them evil. An impossible situation, indeed.
