Oh, Damn.

        Club Asylum was packed and the music was loud. But when one says “loud,” a little perspective is required. There comes a time when music ceases to be a purely audible experience, when the vibrations from the speakers are so forceful that the music becomes less a “sound” and more a tactile soup, a vibrating jelly of sensation that fills the room, tickles the skin, and sets the foam of your beer to jiggling. Of course, it’s hell on your ears – but that night was a Thursday, and Thursday at Club Asylum was 80’s Night, and the thunderous jelly of choice was David Bowies “Modern Love,” so despite the ringing in his skull, things were okay.

         Things were more than okay. Aside from “Modern Love”, things were more than okay because he was out. He was out. He was out. He was out having a good time, with friends, and no dice were involved.

         No, that wasn’t just it. He was out, he was with friends, he was drinking, he was dancing, he was ignoring how awkward he usually felt when he was in this sort of situation, and. . .

         . . . and

         . . . and he was going to have sex.

         . . . with a hot girl.

         He drank his beer and danced, and when he got tired of that, he danced and drank a beer. His arms gyrated wildly but with rhythm. His hands did odd things in the air. He looked over at his friend Steve, also dancing weirdly, also holding a beer. That seemed to help. Steve looked ridiculous, and that seemed okay. So, by the transitive power, if Steve looked okay and ridiculous at the same time, then he could look okay and ridiculous at the same time. “Modern Love” gave way to “How Soon is Now,” which gave way to “Blue Monday” (by New Order, not Orgy, thanks) and he danced and he drank and he shouted to Steve and Steve shouted back to him and he looked for her.

         And she. . .she was everywhere.

         She was four feet and ten inches of pure high octane. She was a tornado stuffed inside a wolverine costumed as a pixie wearing Independent gear. Her smile could be felt, physically felt, from forty feet away. She came out and shouted at him. He smiled and shouted back. Somehow the two of them figured out that one of them should buy some drinks, and it was his turn. He bought himself another beer and a Goldschlager for her. She tossed it back, flashed him her shotgun smile, and zipped back into the crowd. She turned to the nearest sexy girl in black and began dancing up against her.

         Steve came over, the lenses of his emo-standard-issue horn rimmed glasses reflecting the blinking lights from the rig overhead.

         “She’s got a lot of energy,” Steve shouted as his eyes strobed from green to red to purple to green again.

         He nodded and grinned. “She really does.”

         At that moment she came back, her body never stopping, even though sweat soaked her spiked-up hair and made her freedom rings glisten.

         “What are you guys talking about?” she shouted, still dancing.

         “You,” he yelled back.

         “You look like you’re having a good time,” Steve contributed at full volume.

         She nodded to the rhythm of “Sweet Dreams”.

         “I am!”

         And then she was off. Like a laser-guided missile she found the nearest hot little thing in black. He pulled at the collar of his shirt. It was black and hot; black, because this was Club Asylum, and hot, because Club Asylum is in Tucson. “Sweet Dreams” became “Personal Jesus,” which segued into “Tainted Love” (the real version, which leads into “Where Did Our Love Go” like it’s supposed to), which faded out and became “China Girl” because you can’t have too much Bowie at 80’s night. All that time his shirt became hotter (although not blacker), and he gradually began to feel a little more absurd.

         He looked at the people around him – the cream of Tucson’s young alternative crowd. Half the girls had hair of Kool Aid red; half the guys had rings in their noses and large holes in their ears. And he, with his specs, unruly hair, and his “just past the three hundred pound mark” body, stuck out like a sore thumb. He watched her as she came back to him, shouted a few words, had a drink. Watched her fling herself back into the sea of people, find another sexy girl, and grind against her for a few minutes. Watched her come back again, shout a few more words, then zip out to dance. It was a hypnotic, repetitive ritual of courtship that was a testament to both her charm and her energy.

         Fishing, he thought. It’s like she’s fishing. Cast out, reel in. Cast out, reel in.

         He finished his beer, pulled out his phone, and called Lisa. She was their ride. 

         “I’m almost ready to go,” he said to her. He didn’t declare his feelings of failure; she knew of them by now. Why wouldn’t she? It was common in the household.

         Lisa said she was on her way and hung up the phone.

         She came back in, somehow still dancing. By now he was mostly just standing, sometimes leaning on the bar in a way he hoped looked casual. He leaned down to yell closer to her ear, so that she might hear him.

         “Lisa’s coming to get us,” he shouted.

         She nodded. “Okay!”

         He smiled at her and gestured with an empty pint glass to the seething mass of young women in skimpy clothing.

         “If you want any digits, now would be the time to get them,” he yelled.

         She looked at him like he was crazy.

         “I’m going home with you,” she yelled back. She leaned up and put a kiss on the corner of his mouth, and it lingered there for a quick moment. Then she was down from tip-toe and her smile was all for him, before she darted away for one last cast.

         “Oh, damn,” he muttered to himself, but nobody heard him. He took a last look at the patrons of the packed club. On reflection, they weren’t that hot.