“Last Friday Night” or “I Promise My Mom That I’ll Be Social, So I Go To The Local Hangout Armed With My Laptop”

Note: This was written last week, and the tense is all weird because I wrote part of this while at the bistro and part of it at home after.  Just go with it.

I’ve never had a tab started that hasn’t consisted of alcoholic drinks.  But I now have one that’s headlined by a chai latte that tastes like peppery water.  Five-dollar peppery water.  I’m tucked away in a corner with my laptop in the local bistro/hangout because I promised my mom that I would make an effort to try and meet new people.  The laptop is so that I don’t look like a pathetic, lonely foreigner.  Which, as I’m typing this description of myself, I am beginning to realize it only accentuates.

I don’t know where people my age hang out in Kaslo.  I presume that there is no one my age in Kaslo.  There are plenty of hooligan teenagers; I was introduced to their leering eyes as I jogged past a group of them lounging on a picnic bench outside the ice cream shop/gas station.  I imagine it was the kind of dagger-like stare that most girls in clubs attract – but replacing the horniness with mistrust.  I couldn’t even meet these kids’ eyes; I kept mine locked on the ground and jogged at a faster pace – which abruptly turned into a walk once I rounded the corner.

In any case, all of the young people are prowling the street at this hour, the boys cupping their girlfriends’ butt cheeks that are sliding out of their cut offs.  Maybe they’re off to smoke cheap weed, or get wasted on booted Black Label or Smirnoff, or whatever teenagers do.  I mean, when I was a teenager (a whole year and three days ago) I spent most of my time in a similar situation as I am now, minus the other people in the room and plus The Sims/Neopets/deviantART prowling.

I was absolutely gung ho about coming out tonight, accompanied by my laptop so I could at least be productive if I couldn’t be social.  (Just an interjection, I’ve seen the same girl in a leopard print romper and her friends circling the block twice.  Seriously, I will buy these kids alcohol if it means that they will have a crazier night than I.  You’re only young once, right?  “Wrong!” yell Hinduists.)  I was excited, at least, until I had the brilliant idea to watch the series finale of The Office (see previous post regarding that whole debacle), which left my face splotchy and my eyes bloodshot.  When I first saw myself in the mirror I debated not going out after all, sure that my gaggle of new potential friends would take one glance, point at me in all my crimson splotchiness, gasp and exclaim, “Were you crying or are you just super-baked?!” to which I would try to laugh nonchalantly and explain my situation, comical and endearing as it is (because that’s how you make friends: you tell a charming story about how you get attached and emotionally invested too quickly).

As it turned out, of course, I didn’t meet anyone new.  Not even a single member from the band that played, even though it is the perfect situation to meet new people.  You’ll see how from one of the many scenes I concocted whilst driving home.  Alone.


The mood is casual.  The lights are low.  The atmosphere is intimate.  There are only about fifteen or so people left milling around, chatting and paying their drink tabs.  The band has just finished playing its last set.  I make my move to join the small crowd around the band members.

(casual. oh so casual)
Hey, man, that was a really awesome set.


(still as casual as ever.  Probably leaning on the counter.  Not with my elbow in a puddle of mustard or anything embarrassing.)
You guys are selling CDs right?


A’ight, that’s tight, bro.  I’ll get one.

You seem rad.  Have it for free.

[Because even in my fantasies, I am cheap as hell]

(doing that clicking sound with my mouth while shooting with my index finger.  Let’s throw a wink in there too.)
You, sir, are kind and wonderful and talented.

Ugh, you’re so awesome.  Let’s be friends.


You get the idea.  Needless to say, it did not go down like that.  I paid for my overpriced spiced water and shuffled out of the tiny bistro, avoiding eye contact at all costs because I am me, and I do not say things like “A’ight, that’s tight” without it sopping with irony and followed by a goofy giggle.

There’s always next Friday.

P.S. I know that’s not proper screenplay format WHATEVA H8ERS GON H8 IT’S A’IGHT.


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