Immediately my nose was assaulted with sweat, faulty deodorant, lingering clove and dear-god-is-that-fruit-punch?
Alison, grabbed my hand and pulled me through a sea of bodies onto a dance floor no bigger than an unfinished basement of a two bedroom house.
Arms, elbows, sleeves and fingers flew past my face. They made only passing impressions on my vision, because the first and most prevalent sensation I was dealing with was oppressive heat. Heat full of sweat, perspiration and gyration. In a cove fit for thirty there were at least a hundred people. Bodies pressed tightly. Your black sweater becomes my black bandanna.
I suppose now is the best time to mention…I have a problem with proximity. Hordes of people and teeming dance floors typically cause a mass stage of anxiety induced panic within me that can only be cured with a hit of Klonopin or a week of therapy.
When in Vancouver…
I let Alison take me deeper into the mass of black and musk. Further and further.
Finally we reached a bar.
“Thank FUCKING SCIENCE,” I said. “I need a drink.” I pulled out my wallet to buy another round with my fake, play-for-pretend Canadian dollars.
Alison jumped up and threw herself halfway onto the bar.
Kiko turned around. Maybe twenty four years old…I feared only twenty.
“Two please!” Alison smiled. Furnished for us were two Red Fruit Punch Gatorades. I looked towards Alison with what I could only hope was stabbing daggers and intense judgement.
“Nowhere this late can serve alcohol,” she said, “Where do you think you are???”
I stared at her for a moment. I let my eyes bore into her face. Her expression refused to change.
“I think I’m in OZ,” I said.
“HA! Ha ha hahahahahahah! Not yet!” Alison laughed. “Be back soon!!! Dance or something!”
Now I was alone. Behind me, behind the bar, bodies were amalgamating into one huge shared brain. I was resisting it with all of my might.