Saturday Night

by Max Nelson on November 11, 2012

Saturday Night
So the night started out relatively normal, I was sort of hungover from the night before, and had spent my Saturday afternoon being a piece of shit, keeping all my all the links on the reddit video page a nice shade of purple. I finally got the motivation to go skate out front of my old high school, to attain the minimum amount of physical activity required to not depress everyone around you during a night of going-out.

Im driving to pick up David, who shares my hangover. We’re on the freeway changing lanes to Mea’s house in Oakland maintaining a calm level of conversation. At Mea’s we start drinking Smirnoff, beers, and 5 hour energies. I abstain from all drinking save for a beer, as I plan to drive us to BART, where any further transportation plans will disintegrate as hopefully will our inhibitions under the caustic embrace of excessive alcohol consumption. So we refill our 5 hour energy bottles with vodka [Pro Tip] and hit the BART train. In the car I play “Fear of a Blank Planet” by Porcupine Tree which no one likes, followed by “Can’t Keep Up” by Gucci Mane which is received better.

Then we’re walking up Hyde st. through the Tenderknob to the bitterly humorous one-liners of the resident crackhead population. Our destination turns out to be a real shitty bar called the Nitecap, which sucks because A. It’s tiny with oddly placed tables obstructing any semblance of organized hanging out B. It’s loud with shitty rock/alternative punky music C. everyone there is a real “I’m a piece of shit and I know it” local, community-type idiot with a dog or something who just comes there to sit at the bar and nurse one beer while staring directly forward for 3 hours. The coolest part of that bar was this

and the whole bar sung happy birthday to whatever girl we were with, which was the second coolest. But I was glad when we left almost instantly. Now we’re at Vertigo, It’s cool and I at least feel like people their share my interest of getting fucked up. I am talking to the group we’re with, Jon and Davids’ friends from Santa Cruz, a demographic I’m way too familiar with. I’m ordering rum and cokes, a drink which I totally forgot about and am excited to remember. I am conversation hopping with the members of our crew, and glancing at strangers, the usual fun stuff, when in walks some people from high school I haven’t seen in a while. Excitement. I give some meaningful handshakes and back-pats, recite some flippant greetings, this is a fun night.

Outside we are smoking a cigarette, the line to get in has grown to a ridiculous length, a bouncer alerts my friend that he can’t roll a joint in front of the façade, so we mosey down the street to the corner, I decide I am the perfect level of sort-of-drunk, that smoking weed will be a decidedly pleasant experience. I embrace the decision. The group is loitering somewhat enthusiastically, talking about going somewhere else. My awareness is limited. The group decides to head to the next place and I am left in indecision with my one good friend from the group, neither of us have seen each other in a while. It is cool to be high in the city together. Friendo mentions we should go meet them at their destination which is apparently a strip-club. Not usually my thing, but I am feeling uninhibited and in a very “Yes World” type of mood so I go with him to his car, a 2011 BMW SUV bought by his twin brother.

 

At the strip club, I realize we are going to a strip club, I am stoned from my newfound low-weed tolerance, an effect of not often blazing since gaining employment at an office place, ironically my funds are as low as my tolerance and I have zero dollars in my pocket. Our friends are already in and they haggle to get us in. I learn later this place is called the “Penthouse” and is aparrently some kind of thing. I am too high to be interacting with strippers. After being sized up at the door, we get in and roll upstairs where the crew is hanging around a table. There is a bottle  of tequila on the table. I try my best to act cool and watch strippers, some of which are talking to me. I avoid eye contact. My currently empty wallet asserts itself in my mind. I appease their questions politely. I am sitting back contemplating these bizarre circumstances, the surrounding nudity doing little to alleviate my introspection. I notice a bill on the table for almost $500, I am really confused as to what is going on.

Outside the decision is made to go to an “after-party” which turns out to be a bunch of the strip club crowd, trying to get into some weird pseudo-club apartment thing. Unmarked bouncers alternate between hurrying people in and telling people to move along. Hanging in front of the entrance is not allowed. It is weird. My “Yes World” mentality has devolved to “Please Don’t Shank Me World”. I buy a pack of cigarettes and concile myself to terminal boredom.

We are eating pizza. The “club “ was too packed and after waiting in a hallway getting passed by strippers and their loved ones all night, to be greeted by a $20 entrance fee we decided to call it in. We are eating pizza. It is received with jaded enthusiasm. I’m more appreciative of my ride home and lack of stab wounds. As one quiets one’s mind, it begins to open, and the world opens itself proportionally. It’s around 4am;  I can’t smoke in the car.