Night Life

Bartender: “Twenty two fifty, sir.”

Peter: “Twenty two fifty? For two Jamesons and a coke back? Is this fucking Vegas?!”

Bartender: “No sir, it’s a Friday in the City.”

Peter: “You’re a fucking thief and a heartbreaker. What’s your name?”

Bartender: “My name is Janelle None Of Your Fucking Business, sir.”

Your ensemble is a statement, a blanket phrase to the eyes, mind, personality, and soul to the masses. The way it moves in the light, the way it shakes to the music, the way catches the person’s line of sight, and how the rest of it matches up with hair, eyes, mouth, jaw, hands, arms, chest, stomach, torso, legs, it all matters. It’s all a piece of poetry beautifully crafted and costs more than a month’s pay.

Dave: “I think I have a disease.”

Peter: “Oh, and what’s that?”

Dave: “It’s a disease that flares up when alcohol comes into my body. See, it fucks with my sense of numbers, and it makes me think I have more zeroes in my bank account than I really do.”

Peter: “…That’s not a disease, that’s a side effect. If it was a disease, country would declare a state of emergency, and we’d all be fuckin’ quarantined and forced to study economics with Jewish professors until we can handle bills better than a tax collector.”

Dave: “…”

Peter: “…”

Dave: “You’re fuckin’ racist man.”

Peter: “Whatever. You want a sip from my flask?”

When will it all become irrelevant? You know, the bass-laden music that handcuffs your eardrums and beats it with a nightstick. The women who are always wary of your motives. The men who are looking for a sparring partner outside on the concrete. The drinks that eat away at your paycheck like termites in your wall. The dance floor that has no other room but standing. The fact that nobody can hear you, no matter how loud you spit in their ear.


The bouncer who, for some reason or other, will never like your shoes, and use it as an excuse to squeeze a twenty out of you. The dangerous fact that you drove. The pitfalls of rolling with two passengers who are always more drunk than you (which is less than you came with, because Peter always seems to disappear with random ass).


The cops waiting outside to impound your car and throw you in the tank. The feeling of leaving the building disconnected from everyone and everything, no matter how deep you rolled into this god-forsaken nightclub.


It all becomes irrelevant when you get old. And you only get old when you stop hanging on to the notion that you aren’t. Staying young has its benefits, but fatigue, like death, catches up with everyone. Sooner or later, it’ll be a harder and longer process to put on a button-up, dress shoes, and nice jeans and roll the dice with the night one more time.


I don’t speak for everyone here. I’m not even speaking for my complete self. Just a little voice in the corner of my head. You know, the one who usually accompanies my headaches and nausea with, “Motherfucker. I told you so. Should’ve stayed home last night and watched TV….and where the fuck are you?”


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