Bracelet Lost

It’s another weeknight, so drinking continues. Again, 40 bucks in a night. I can’t keep this up.

Anyway, my story. We’re at a night club, and it’s a traffic light party. I bought a tool-like hoodie for this occasion. I figure I’ll return it the next day, though, should’ve bothered to read the store’s return policy first. But I came late. Had to race through my shower and getting dressed topspeed to make the next bus.

I’ve been drinking classy vodka tonics, and making my social rounds, when I decide to take to the dance floor. The girls we were with have been drinking much more heavily than us. In fact, the minute I go to the dance floor, one of our girls dramatically falls backwards onto me, scraping down my arm and spilling my drink in the process.

Something about my wrist feels amiss, in addition to spilled tonic. I look, and to my horror, discover my leather bracelet missing. Well, this puts a screeching halt to my evening activities. I scour the dance floor. I comb all the tables. I ask every bartender (girls in fishnet leggings, mostly), the DJs, and many of my new friends. No one has seen my missing bracelet.

Someone must have stolen it, I figure, as I pout in a corner. People come to talk to me, maybe cheer me up. One even tries to teach me to dance for no apparent reason. I was only on the dance floor for 30 seconds, was it that apparent?

My night is over, it seems. Yet, despite not feeling up to it at all, I follow my new dancing friend to another club. Union Jack’s. Last time I was here, I was amazed the Irish tour group didn’t start a fight. Considering it’s a British bar, I get myself some Guinness. First time I’ve ever had it. Everyone I talk to can instantly identify it from the color and the thickness, and they all turn up their noses at it. Is it that bad? Well it certainly wasn’t worth the six fucking bucks they charged me.

It seems everyone I’ve ever met in Australia is here. How has everyone condensed on Union Jack’s? It’s like an unspoken agreement. Everyone from the traffic light party is here. The other Americans are here. Hell, I even encounter the Swede, and subsequently avoid him for the rest of the night.

An American boy I know from a different school comes up to me, and tells me through a thick drunken slur that I look cute tonight. Suspicion confirmed, but I’ll deal with that bullshit another night. Minutes later, an Australian girl I met once comes up to me, and whispers conspiratorially in my ear something in gibberish. Fucking Australian accents. I’m pretty sure she wants me to fuck her fat ugly friend for some reason. Remembering a few minutes ago, I say “Sorry, gay.” The actual legitimacy of that statement is irrelevant, it works beautifully. Seriously, I’m not in the mood for this crap.

Guinness done, I make my way to the new dance floor. Popped collars sprawling for miles in any direction. The physical heat they give off is overpowering. Black lights illuminate everything, and I can instantly tell who’s bleached their hair or artificially whitened their teeth. An eerie green glow in their mouth. The other WashU kids dance together on an elevated platform in the middle. I watch from a distance. Vowing to associate with only Australians has cost a price. There’s a hostile undercurrent between myself and the others. I can’t tell anymore if they’re friends, rivals, or enemies. It probably doesn’t matter.

Eventually I get bored, and tag along with the next group to leave. Coincidentally, it’s the boy who tried to teach me to dance and co. I ask him if he has any pot. Again, I wonder why I crave drugs at these places. But he doesn’t have. I need to get myself to the Valley someday soon.

Arriving home, I flop on my bed. Turn and look at my desk. There’s the bracelet, sitting on my laptop. In my rush, I must’ve left it here, and wasted a good night and $2.50 drink specials trying to find it. I’m sure there’s some karma, some cosmic metaphor to be had here. But I don’t care. I just want some pot and a nap.