And we all start again

Day to day life was a drag to say the least. At the time I was making a living by ringing register in a grocery store, working for the Thursday paycheck, and making ends meet by selling a little... stuff on the side. Brass tacks, I’d pay thirty bucks a ten strip for primo blotter and turn it around at ten a hit. There was also the pot but I only ever did that once, and it involved Armenians in an airport and eventually a chainsaw. Speaking of woodies, you’ve never really been turned on until you’ve taken a gas powered Stihl to someone’s couch for stiffing you on a quarter ounce. He paid after that. Fucking frat boy.

But I digress. Thursday was payday. It was also the day that Club Laga ran their all ages goth/industrial night. For a three dollar cover you could get into a dimly lit third floor warehouse loft full of Baby Bats and Edgar Allen Poseurs, listen to depressing music, and pay way too much for watered down liquor. It wasn’t the only game in town, but they did occasionally gig some decent bands. I saw Godsmack, Type-O Negative, and The Electric Hellfire Club there (we got kicked out of the Godsmack show, but that’s a story for a different time). Any other night it was just as good a place to watch they eye candy as anywhere else without the meat market vibe of some of the other college bars. Again, goth girls. Sort of an Achilles’ heel for me.

Tonight though I was trying something different. I trekked the two blocks from the store to my third floor walk-up, praying that the Kid was somewhere else that night. Don’t get me wrong, I loved Nick like a brother or at times a son, but it can be really hard to dress up nice when your roommate is fucking his girlfriend six feet away. There were a couple people in the living room (there always are when you share a two bedroom apartment with thirteen other people... don’t judge. The rent was really cheap), but Nick and Mary were nowhere to be found and the tell-tale squeaking of his box springs wasn’t in evidence either. After greeting those gathered, I closed myself into the bedroom and quickly got out of my work clothes, tossed on my bathrobe, and made a beeline for the shower.

Clean, wrapped in a towel, I headed back to the bedroom (rent may have been quite inexpensive but the trade off was modesty and privacy) and started getting my ass ready. Black button down. Check. White tie. Check. White slacks. Check. White vest. Check. And the finishing touch was the white jacket. Goth trends toward black, but the Baby Bats tend to be attracted to shiny things. My theory was that if I stood out completely I’d get more ass than a toilet seat. I finished the look with a silver pocket watch, my blackthorn walking stick, and a white Panama hat. For added effect, I decided to leave my hair down. A quick spray of Cool Water (90’s, remember?) and I was out the door.