The Night I Loved My Hair

Abandoned on Queens Street. I was out buying something (more on that later), and seeing how it was almost 9, I decided to text my friends. The girls were having a girl’s night. The guys were on a double date. I was alone, and really wishing classes would start already.

I walked down two blocks to The Victory, the only bar I know. There weren’t too many people, but they were all in groups. I walk in, stand at the bar, and order a pint. A night of drinking alone? Sounds like my social life is buzzing.

A man comes up from behind me, and leans on my shoulder, in a typical drunken fashion. “That bitch stole my drink,” he says. He then, without waiting for any acknowledgement from myself, slurs on for a minute or two about how the bartender collected his still-unfinished drink. I listen with a blank stare, because this is apparently better than drinking alone.

His friends join me. “Who the fuck is this?” I only need to tell them my name before their arms are around me and I’m their new best friend. The three of them have a thick accent I can’t place. I also can’t remember their names, but they surely remember mine, because all three broke into spontaneous rendition of “Scotty Doesn’t Know.”

I finally realize, I’ve stumbled into an Irish tour group. Even if I’m not in their group, I’m one of their own. An Irish is a member of the family, no matter where in the world they’re from. I keep to myself the fact that there isn’t a drop of Irish blood in me. I just let the hair speak for itself.

Before I can finish my pint, they grab me by the arm and pull. I chug the other half of the pint, and regret it. Turns out I’ve also stumbled onto a pub crawl. I quickly become acquainted with the dozen or more drunk Irishmen and women who are apparently my new family. Before I can even say hello to them all, we’re at a British bar, the Union Jack. The music is bagpipes, the food is haggis, and the atmosphere is wonderfully stereotypical. I don’t think they notice.

One is particularly fascinated with me. Turns out, he hates America. Wonderful. I listen to him blather on for a few minutes about Bush and Religion. I agree, yet I couldn’t care less. I nod accordingly. He quizzes me: “Name a country that starts with U”. I could say Uganda, but I decide to be bold and say Uruguay. He hugs me tight, spilling a little of his beer onto my back. “You’re the first American I’ve never liked.”

The two of us are then hit on by two women plainly in their 40's, but desperate to hide it with facelifts and botox. I guess they have a liking for fresh meat or really strong cocktails.

On to the next bar, and another quiz. Name the country capitals. I apparently miss enough that I have to buy him a beer. How the fuck did I get roped into that deal? And why are they still singing “Scotty Doesn’t Know”? Why doesn’t Australia have immigration quotas or something?

As he quizzes me, the lush tosses paper coasters into the bar sink. One after another. Apparently, 5 is all it takes to get kicked out. I smirk, and I get kicked out as well. Plainly, this bartender has vestigial testicles. Atrophied from years of non-use. The fuck is wrong with this faux-hawked douchebag that he considers smirking grounds for dismissal? And why was the catalyst for our rejection complaining about conservatives in America this whole time?

Well, secretly I was glad. I didn’t want to keep chugging all night and have to deal with them at the end of the pub crawl. God forbid they ask me out again. Instead, the two of us walk aimlessly, and end up back at the Victory. Back where we came from. We go inside and up to the dance floor. I buy a vodka tonic, wishing I had an infinite bank account, and sip it slowly. By the time I’m done, so is he. Gotta be up early, and all that bullshit. I’m left again. Back where I came from.

Back downstairs. I notice how fucking common a pierced eyebrow is. The left eyebrow. I don’t know if I feel special or retarded. But that’s irrelevant to the story.

The bus is still an hour away, so I wander. I end up downstairs. I end up at karaoke. The crowd here is a little older, but its perfect. They sing songs from their teenage years. They sing songs from my childhood. I’m alone in the city. My friends may or may not have ditched me. But as I stand in the bar, kinda drunk, and belt out “Sweet Caroline” with Generation X, I decide Brisbane will be my home. And these strangers will be my family, at least for the next 5 months. I’d rather booze with strangers than cling desperately to home.