The bass is thumping, the music's pumping and I just got through my third double vodka-tonic, each of which was used to chase a shot. I'm shitfaced and I'm bored out of my skull. This is when I get into trouble. Dr. Jekyll and Mr Jackass. I become the prankster version of myself. The guy you see in movies when the main character makes a double and he comes out with a skinny face, stronger jaw muscles and a goatee.
The music is so loud out there, you couldn't hold a conversation if you tried, and if the walls weren't reinforced, the books would come right off the shelves. That's where I am. Somewhere with books and shelves. I got tired of waiting in line for the bathroom and I found a secret corridor with a private restroom. The manager's restroom.
I'm searching around diligently, curiously. Rummaging. It's the old high school mentality. I want to leave some sign that I was here, but I sure as hell don't want to get caught. There's a wall of monitors getting feed from the security cameras and they show me all the sexy girls drone dancing in front of the DJ booth on a two second delay from real time. I hear the beat drop and I get the booty-shake reaction on the monitors just late enough for it to be awkward. I see the girls in skimpy outfits dancing in a tight circle with each other while they get all the unwanted attention they didn't bargain for. I see the guy dancing off beat and trying to sneak his way into a dry-hump dance. One girl accepts. Then she goes to the bar for a drink. He's alone again. There's the girl in the upper right monitor falling all over the DJ booth and she's going to screw up everybody's night if she scratches that needle against the vinyl.
I see me in the lower left monitor. My profile. I look as drunk as I feel. My mouth hanging wide open and my eyes all but closed. What I wouldn't give to hear my friends tell me they want to leave already. But I'm having fun now. I'm invisible. I'm a wild card. I was never here. I wonder if these cameras are recording. Oh well; I don't plan to come back soon.
I'm sorting through all the random stuff in this dimly lit room. Save for the monitors, it's pitch black in here. I fumble through some accounting ledgers, the management schedule, a photo album of some kind... it's all pretty boring stuff.
What's this? There's a mini-fridge in the back corner. What's inside. Oooh yeah... a Greek pasta salad. I'll just help myself to a little. No doubt, this is some bouncer's late night snack. All the good restaurants will be closed and it'll be three in the morning when he gets off shift and he'll be starving. But I'm sooo hungry right now.
And what's this? On the top shelf, a big pink box. Looks like a cake box. Could it be? Have I hit the jackpot? I mean... somebody probably put this away for a birthday party going on in the VIP lounge, or an anniversary.
But they wouldn't notice if I took one little taste.
I reach all the way up top. Isn't there a chair I can stand on or something? I hate being so short. I'll just... ugh... reach-
This is the punchline.
Champagne flutes. 30 of them. They tip over, one-by-one, cascading over my head now pointed toward the floor, and the shattering is like the pitter-patter of crystalline raindrops. They fall slowly and gracefully as dignified champagne glasses should. And me, so drunk, so negligent, that I didn't even bother to put down the salad before I reached for the box of flutes. The salad is now completely covered in shards. I feel like a real jerk. Somebody somewhere is laughing. And why not? I would too.
I step outside of the secret corridor from my adventure in drunken wonderland and my friends are right there.
"There you are. We've been looking for you. Where the hell were you."
"I went to the bathroom," I'm quick to explain.
"For how long?"
"I had to take a shit."
"Oh. Well I don't know if you wanna stay, but we're hungry."
"Yeah. I'm down. Let's get the fuck out of here."
"Were you dancing with a chick?"
"No."
"You have glitter on you."
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