The original plan was to go bowling, but B was depressed because S had said "Goodbye" and we all decided to be indulgent and do what she wanted to do, and B wanted to go to a club. Because M is only 20 we decided to go to Area 51 where you only have to be 18 to enter, even though Area 51 is a place for scuzz goths, or so I had heard.
I had heard right. We parked on the street in front of the "No parking" sign, and across from the "Jesus Saves" mission. None of us had brought cash so we had to go across the street to the bar where Punk Band with gender neutral front man played relentless chords that throbbed rhythmically in my chest.
Earlier in the day I had gone to the impressionist exhibit at the museum, after lunch at aristo's and I hadn't changed. I didn't look like someone who belonged at a club, I looked like someone who belonged at a museum, casually discussing Monet's use of color. As we walked to the doors I tried to fake it. I threw my shoulders back and I looked directly ahead of me, "I can pull it off" I thought to myself "I'm wearing converse sneakers aren't I? Everyone loves converse."
At the door I handed the 700 lb bouncer my five dollar bill and my ID (which glowed under the black light. Who knew?) entering the establishment only confirmed what I had already suspected. I didn't belong there, there was nothing "me" about this place, and I felt like square Jenna from squaresville.
"I'm not sexy enough to go to clubs" I thought as I walked past the smoke filled dance room where the bar tenders bump and grind. I marvel at the bump and grind, it is something I am not capable of.
Most of my "dance" experience has been through musical theatre, and I find it difficult to dance without Jazz hands and a Vaseline smile. My self preservation instincts told me that it wouldn't be acceptable to do a jazz square whilst Nelly tried to convince us "It's getting hot in here."
In an effort to escape the oppressive smell of cigarette smoke we slipped through the door to the smokers porch, where the fresh air at least alleviated the smell, and we could at least hear each other talk.
Across the way, dressed like a goth pirate was a flamboyant young man who made me think of ducky from "Pretty in Pink" and I wanted to know about his life. How did he feel about the world, what were his thoughts, and I wanted to ask "So Goth Ducky, what is your philosophy?" But then B wanted to go back inside, and I felt sick to my stomach.
Sick from not belonging, and cigarette smoke and loud music, and how sad it was that B was doing all this to prove something to someone who had said "Goodbye" and was never going to hear about it.
On the car ride home, I could smell garnier fructise mingled with cigarette smoke in my hair, and I felt like I was going to fall asleep. I thought about Goth Ducky and wondered about what his life must be like, and how different it must be from mine. B sniffled in the front seat, while M drove and comforted her, and I felt my eyelids drooping, and thought about how I wished that my life was more like a Wes Anderson movie...no one goes to clubs in Wes Anderson movies.