text: You go into a bar, you order a drink, some people not part of your group are there with their groups, also ordering drinks. But you wonder why. Because all around you, through the mistiness of this bar with loud music of a genre you don’t listen to, there are a bunch of people crowded around wooden bar stools and a laminated counter top fetching drink after drink from an incognito punk-hipster with black-rimmed glasses, slicked back hair with shaved sides, a beard, gauges, and reeks of pot, then swimming away into the sea of randos. Smoke fills the air, the music gets louder, you get your fifth drink, because though you can’t find your friends in the sea of people milling about and you think that they’re going hard too. You call over the blaring music that you want a budlight, but the bartender gives you miller lite. Realizing it’s not the right drink, you call back to get a budlight instead, and in that moment, the friend of a friend tugs you on your shirt to say “Hey man! Music is great, right?”. You barely know this guy, but you nod your head in approval and say “Dude, it is!”, laughing hysterically for no apparent reason, other than to fill the void that your conversation with a guy you barely know was pretty pointless, you turn back to the bar. But where the hell is your drink? You could’ve swore you put it on the counter. Where the hell is it? You turn back to see if that friend is still there, he’s not. You walk away from the bar just for a second, peering into the smokey room, and then back to the counter. But God Damnit, there’s someone in front of you and now you have to wait in line. Some ass hat in a Jets jersey has cut you and HE has a miller lite! He must have stole it from you, what a dick. Just your night! You don’t even like the Jets, this guy is talking about Vince Papali, he was an Eagle and you hate Mark Wahlberg. What a douche. But you do like the colors white and green. The blend between the two in the dark musty room with booming music, now entrances you to think about Adidas, as the green turns into black and the white stripes remind you of your old pair of Sambas which still sit in the cellar of your parent's house that they have yet to sell at a garage sale. Man, those were sweet sneakers. “Hey...Hey...buddy...can I help you?” The bartender calls over the Jets man as he walks away from the bar with two more beers. You turn around. “Oh, shit, my bad man, here you go”, the bartender says handing you your budlight at last. Your eyes water with joy, hugging the budlight, you tip a fake-hat to hipster-punk-mcgee and carryon in your journey for ‘enjoying the night’. Suddenly, the music stops, a man comes over the intercom, “The bar will close in 1 hour, this is the last call”. Having just got a drink, you think ahead, what about your friends? Maybe they want drinks! You already have a drink and you feel charitable! Jets man cuts in front of you again, God damn you Jets Man! You shimmy through your pockets to find your wallet and one lone-5 dollar bill, and you know that can only afford one beer. Sorry, hipster no tip tonight! You wait in the line, turning back, seeing a man whose about 20 years older than you are - unaccompanied by anyone wearing a dirty hat that looks like he worked at chipotle with a crystal necklace; this guy means business. Smoking a cigarette obnoxiously close to you and wishing this guy would just go away, he leans in “Hey, do you know Sandra?” ... Sandra ... Sandra... the name echos through one ear and out the next, hoping that would be the end of that guy, suddenly Jets man turns around with a beer in his hands and says “I know a Sandra!” and BOOM, he spills the beer all over you. God DAMN YOU JETS MAN! You are super pissed, your budlight has been miller-lighted, and you HATE miller lite. Drenched in fury, you walk up to the bartender, asking for napkins but you stumble over your words and say “hapkins!”, the hipster bartender puts his hand to his ear as if he is trying to qualm you to say whatever you said again , you say “HAPKINS!”, he still doesn’t know what you mean. Then he sees you are drenched in beer. Your shirt is all wet, Jets guy is talking to dirty chipotle hat man, and they’re both smoking cigarettes, and your friends are no where to be found. Hipster-punk-mcgee pants returns with some napkins “Here you go man!”, so thoughtful, you finally approve of his glasses. You dry yourself off and over the intercom, you hear “LAST CALL, EVERYBODY LAST CALL!”, you run up to the bar in a hurry, drenched in beer praying that hipster-mcgee will spare you one last attempt at that beer. And surely, he comes through, thinking only of the best-case scenario, you think of your best friend with you at the moment. You know it’s not Alex, it’s not Dmitri, it’s not Sarah - ohhhp, you know, you’ll get a beer for Claire! You haven’t seen her in so long, it would mean the world! You order up a tall-one, the hipster leans in “What kind?”, you say “Surprise me”, he says “I gotchu”. Turning back to a smoke filled dance floor full of melodically confused drunk people slow dancing to EDM, and back to Jets man and dirty chipotle hat guy speaking now about the big game, and back to your friend who grabbed you earlier now drunkenly talking about his work as a database administrator to a homeless guy who looks like he just stabbed someone, you turn back to the bar. Hipster mcgee comes through again! “Here you are man!” And THEN, you just had to say it: “Hey, look man, you...you know? You know....you are just fucking phenomenal at your job! You are killing it right now. MVP right here” Making the hipster’s night, you plunge your way through the crowd of zombified drunk people getting down to an ll-cool J and Skrillex remix and the time is 1:00am, peace-signing your hands in the distance towards the bartender, he throws a towel over his shoulder shaking his head - another night. Moving past the randos - now fellow companions - raging through the night, you understand the culture. The artifacts of empty beer cans and spilled vodka drinks, wallets, and watches, trash, all over the ground it all makes sense to you; this is night life and all are one. These are your origins, a sort of native re-call hits you and you feel as though there’s something missing. Oh yeah, you’re trying to find your friend, Sadie? Charlie? Andrew? No, CLAIRE! Yes, yes, yes, it is Claire! And You have her beer! Aw, she will be so pleased, if only you could find them. Smoke fills the room, you try to make your way back into a room where you think the table is, and it is! And there she is, Claire, the glorious. The memorable. The legend. “Hey Claire, I got you something!” You put the drink down. Looking at her and your friends, half-of which are face down on the table totally shit faced, you can finally have a real conversation. Over the intercom, “Alright everyone! Time is up, the bar will be closing in 10 minutes!”. You hurry, “Come on Claire, you gotta drink your beer, I got it for you!” but quickly Ashley backs her best friend up - because no one tells her best friend what to do - “Joe, she doesn’t want to okay. She’s had a really bad night, I think she’s done”. Now looking like the asshole, realizing no one gives a fuck about your presents. And to think, this whole time Santa Claus was an image of good to you, a one true spirit to look up to for being jolly and so giving and now, this, this!?!? This is what you get for all that you have been through! All this nothingness and disrespect you can’t stand it and yet, you permit “alright”. You contemplate, will I have to drink this myself? Ewe, it’s a triple IPA. This will be hard for you. You should’ve known, god damn hipsters. He said ‘I gotchu’ and you trusted him like a brother. Of course, it’s a triple ipa. Well, bottoms up, but in that moment your friend’s friend runs over to you and your table. “Joe! Dude Joe! Man, dude that was crazy! Cool music, huh?” the friend's friend says. Contemplating on drinking that last beer before your last five bucks goes to waste, you pause to answer his question, placing the beer on a nearby table. “Yeah man, that last song was like something I heard in a movie once I think”, continuing the conversation because at the very least this friend of a friend seems to give a shit about you; good ole whatever his name is. Turning back toward your table, you see the beer you placed has gone missing again. Dirty chipotle hat man and Jets jersey have relocated near your table and are sitting with some girls and of course, fucking Jets guy has a triple IPA now. You walk over to him and finally stand up for yourself, “Hey man, what the fuck is your problem?” And the intercom interrupts, “Alright, it’s 2:00am the bar is closed. Everybody out” The night ends.