Alone together out

The pink vibrance from the downstairs disco lights fails to make its way to the top of the stairs in front of me. They lead to the band room. I’d seen enough bands recently to miss out on whoever was up there. I tilt my head to the left, and then to the right. That’s how I figure out if I’m drunk or not. I get dizzy and quickly grip the round wooden table beside me. Whether I’m intoxicated or just dizzy is a mystery to my drunk self. That pink vibrance is keeping everyone else downstairs, too. Actually, it feels like nobody wants to leave the fun, drink-spilling body ocean under the stagelights, especially to be the loser walking upstairs to see a band. I say fair.

My friends are no longer with me. I’m willing to bet my wallet they’re smoking outside, though I’d only really be giving up my ID and my Myki. Everyone here is having so much fun. Even the bartender that poured me the drink I am now conveniently remembering is on that wooden table beside me seemed to be having more fun than me. Going out is meant to be social, but I find myself taking any chance I can to get a break from the social aspect of it.

I’ve never been so jealous before. I hate that I’m rambling. I’m concerned I look like a drunk idiot standing by myself. I suppose we’re all drunk idiots here, though. I feel like I’ve found my people, except they all have fun a lot easier than I do. I’m jealous of every wave in that dancing ocean, able to not vague out as soon as they have a couple of drinks. It’s so easy to zone out at night but I reckon I find it easier than most. The music dulls at night for me, too, as if past 10 pm all the speakers in the city get a blanket thrown over them. My most heightened sense is my vision. Strangers are kissing, enabled by that fuchsia glow. They seem to be far away from the crowd surrounding them, despite the elbows pushing into their ribs, the shoes riding up on their heels. There must be groups of friends dispersed throughout the crowd, but from the way they smile at each other with such curiosity, everybody seems as alone as they could possibly be within a crowd of people.

I’m jealous of how they kiss strangers, their colourful drinks, how they seem to know every song the DJ plays. Jealous that they’re not thinking about their own jealousy tonight. I am on the moon staring at the ocean. I can nearly taste the salt on my tongue.

A familiar freckled hand reaches for my arm and blasts me into the crowd. I know I’ll be spending the rest of the night swimming through the people I’ve been admiring. I raise my arms towards the stage lights above me. I am no closer to these people than I was before.

There’s a distance in the air tonight between me and the bodies pushing against me, one that will stay here at the pub when I leave, waiting for somebody else to latch onto. I wonder if I’m the only one here who is jealous of the people who seem more adapted to nightlife. The more I get used to these people, the more inviting they seem. It is in my head. I wonder if it’ll ever make it out.

There’s a wet heat only dance sweat can produce rising up my neck. I’m thankfully taller than everyone’s armpits. There are four shoulders digging into my sides, a ballet flat pressed against my heel and a guy’s one-sided conversation gusting breath across the peach fuzz on my ears. I’m not with them on the dancefloor, but they think I am, and that’s all that matters tonight.

***

If I leant any harder against the window, I’d pop a forehead pimple. At the very least, it’ll be agitated until morning. Oh, how far away that is. This is not an afters, but merely a break from the action. One ear is being comforted by the sharp night-cold of said window, the other grateful I’m not neck deep in the toilet like that guy, whose name I should remember. I’ll let you know if it comes to me. I watch pink light radiating from a house ten or fifteen floors below me. I wish I was at that house party, and toilet guy yearns for a window like mine. We’re all so jealous, aren’t we? My head topples to the right. Not sure why I’m checking if I’m drunk again. Honestly, I’m a few coughs away from becoming toilet guy two.

There’s so much alcohol in my system and all I want to do is heave an axe against the nerves joining my excitement bone to my jealousy bone. And then blowtorch the ends. I hit my head against the window, light enough that no-one will hear and at an angle that won’t agitate my pimple.

Dude, are you all good? Fuck, I look like I’m sad.

Yeah, I’m good. I’m good. I give a thumbs up.

My eyebrows had been raised so high as I’d stared at the pink party lights that my forehead aches when they finally resume their usual spots. I am moth drunk tonight.

***

Everybody has moved to bar number two or 3+1. It’s a dive bar, although nobody has ever told me what a dive bar actually is. I think it's just a regular bar but tighter and longer. I must be somewhat right, because when I call a bar built like this one a dive bar people usually get what I mean. I blink hard in an attempt to warm my face. I hiccup but I can’t seem to hiccup the words to complain about the beer prices. After all, we're all supposedly having fun here. When the night is earlier than it feels.

Pink fills the room from stage lights at the end of the long bar. I am glued behind a pit of red spilling over the bottles of spirits. How many people here have shared a drink from the same bottle?

I gaze through the lenses of the rectangle glasses of the man across the bar, between the lids of the spirits. Arnold, I quickly name him, a fitting old white guy name, likely inspired by the frill of his upcoming trip to Turkey. He’s tilted his head to the side but is otherwise upright, talking to a woman that looks to be half his age. I call her Amanda. The Amanda of my imagination originally had just wanted to get back to her friends, but for some reason she couldn’t help but stay to yell-talk at this balding man about her literature assignment that was due tomorrow. She lies about having not read the book. His eyes are happily fixed on her skin and his ears are closed. People are gross. I notice the damp sweat gradually spreading across my shoulders and consider how much like the promised afterlife a hot shower would be.

Dave (I call him) blocks my view from the match made in heaven. He’s working the night shift here. I’d never call him Dave to his face, only Please and Thanks, but he’s definitely got a Dave thing going for him. He lets his facial hair get pretty thick, likely without even realising it, and you can tell he usually wears hats from the way he rubs his hand across his buzz cut and not from the buzz cut itself. He’s the loneliest in the room. This is his first shift after getting broken up with not for the first time, but the second, when the ‘you are the problem and not them’ meteor lands. I see all of this in his eyes. At the moment, with my intuition sharpened by alcohol, I clearly have fantastic judgement. I wonder if my people watching is holding up the line, but I turn and the people aren’t here. They’re dancing to Drake.

I’m less drunk than before. The red sobered me up from the pink. In this moment, I’m happy with who I am. Is it really lonely to experience loneliness when just about everybody does? I wonder if anyone has ever managed to achieve a life void of the whole lonely thing, and if they even realised it. My head itches at that. I’ll have a proper think about it tomorrow. I finally slide my fingers around the side of the condensating round glass of bourbon and Coke. I lost my determination to only buy cheap beer a few hours ago. Getting back to my friends is my top priority and so the people watching will have to wait. I have so much to tell them. Everybody is lonely tonight.