Oldcastle’s Journal, Mar. 22nd.

11:05PM.  Wound on my foot looks unpleasant, swollen.  Insect bite, or whatever it is, kept me from hitting the street last night.  Could kick myself.  Tonight, the plan is to check out S&D, a local bar that Zach used to work at.  Mingle, make contact.  Try to be of help to people who don’t realize they need help.  At the station, meet up with Zach and a couple short-termers he brought along.

Once hand-stamped and through the doors, the cacophony engulfs us.  We waft through the miasma of smoke, making out shapes of tables in the back.  There are a couple guys in plaid shirts idling their time and we hit it off.  One of them, Ken, seems interested in our blonde friend, but doesn’t seem to know his chances are tenuous.

At the front, where the soundtrack is stuck on “tribal caterwauling”, the hunting grounds are whatever space is to be had between tables for gyrations, set up according to the local ordinance.  The guys mostly gawk awkwardly around at the edge of the herd, or, steaming with desire, find some girl in loincloth to rub up against.  Between the strobing lights, you can see the hollowness in the girl’s eyes.  Their bodies want to crash, but caught up in the surge, they push on, convincing themselves they enjoy this routine.

1:10AM.  Talk with two or three other folks as the night wears on.  It’s dicey.  Two girls at the next table seem worn out and I saddle over to try things out.  They’re slow to warm up.  Figure I’m there on the prowl like everyone else.  Offer to get them some energy drinks and come back with two Red Bulls.  It’s an exercise in practice.  One of the girls tells me I have a nice smile, so of course I’m unable to smile for the rest of the time.  Ken spends most of the time slumped over in the corner.

2:30AM.  Find Zach and his friends talking with a group hanging out outside the club.  They’re an assorted bunch.  Look promising.  But I got stuff in the morning and have to be heading on.  I walk with Ken as he looks for a taxi.  We cross the footbridge over the street and meet a super-sized Aussie with a prominent midsection and rat-scraggle of a beard.  Steve, as he’s called, greets us in friendly, but edgy way of drunkards, holding out a bottle for us.  I pass until he turns to Ken, who has a sip.  He’s told to drink it all, but Ken demures.  “Drink it down or I’ll throw you off this **** bridge,” he breathes, reaching to grab Ken’s jacket.  I move in and tell Steve hands off.  Then he shrugs and laughs, says he was only joking.  Good.  I was about make a joke of my own involving the Zima bottle and the bridge of his nose.  I make a friendly “see you around” (sunovagun) and walk Ken across the street, apologizing for fat-heads like that.  Ken nervously laughs it off.  Guess he’ll remember this night.