Operation 'Whiskey Retrieval' in a dress
This happened, laughably, not 15 minutes after we arrived. The Young Archers role deep and we piled in more than appropriately festooned for 80s night.
I wore a dress, a rare occasion, and If I say so myself, looked rather pretty. We quickly got to our usual business of dancing wildly and scavenging beers off the tables. All was going well until Grady received a distressed call from Jesse out in the parking lot-the whiskey having been confiscated and thrown in the trash, his person having been thrown out of the club. We debated going somewhere else for the evening but eventually he, having to work in the morning anyway, elected to take the train home.
I kept thinking about my brand new bottle of whiskey and by the end of the night I had become obsessed with Operation Whiskey Recovery. As we prepared to leave around 2 am I even tried to enlist the help of a cute boy near our table. I happen to think this might have been one of the more fantastic pick-ups in the history of the world:
Me: "hey, are you interested in a secret mission?"
him: (blasely) "What do you mean?"
"see that garbage can over there?" I gestured toward the coat check area, "we have it on good intelligence that there within lies a UNOPENED half pint of Jim Beam whiskey. All we need is a hero to retrieve it. Are you up for the challenge?"
"what do you mean?"
"I mean, will you go look in the garbage can for my bottle of whiskey?" I explicated with a charming grin.
"Uh...that sounds like a lot of work."
Clearly this boy was not much for adventure or free whiskey. In short, a total waste of my time.
"You then, good sir will NOT enjoy the bounty of the spoils once the mission has been completed!" I thundered snottily, turning on my heels and heading for my coat.
On the way out, Michelle chatted up the doorman and covered me while I rummaged in the trash. I did not find my whiskey but I quickly managed to slice open the top of my right middle finer on a piece of wet broken class. "Fuck!" I cried out, drunk but far from completely anesthetized. "Keep looking!" Michelle barked, momentarily turning from the door tender. She's right. Heros shouldn't give up so easily.
I wrapped my bloody finger in my scarf and went back in. Nothing. As my finger began to throb a realization dawned on me that I had been too drunk, stubborn and tunnel-visioned to consider before: there was no way any door tender, even the most surly or vindictive, would let that bottle go to waste. After banishing Jesse, I'm sure the staff quickly pocketed the booty.
Using my scarf as a tournequet, I stepped out into the snowy night defeated and morbidly depressed. Michelle had the idea to check in the dumpster which I did lamely, finding only some cardboard air filters before another meat head chased us away.
On the way home someone in the car pulled out a Reader and showed me a picture of a stupid band whose song had premiered in the club that night. We immediately recognized the lazy, Heinekin-sucking cute boy as he was wearing the same plaid shirt that night was he was in the picture.
"That boy is a hater of adventure!" I seethed, waving my bloody scarf in bitter anger. My coherence ebbed in an astonishing inverse proportion to my swelling gloom. The dancing had been fun but, as is the case with most "fun" outings, I was returning home feeling empty and inexplicably sad.
To my friends' amusement, I spent most of the ride home muttering about how I had given that boy a PH test and "boy did He turn up fucking BASIC!"