I don't have a set group of friends in Auckland yet. So, I drink and make friends. Although Ms. Bartender and Captain Morgan and I have an intimate comradeship, I make other friends too, with plausible life-long companionships looming. After last weekend's monkeyshines, friend additions in my cell phone comprised Viking, Homer, and Cmfsda. After this weekend, Air Force, Kiwi, and Shmrck boosted my friend count to sixteen. Nine of the sixteen: nicknames. I think five of those were females. When these probable best friends text me, they oftentimes have to describe themselves, where they met me, what I was wearing, and if I referred to them by a Booze Name. For example, I called someone Keggers for our two-hour drinking acquaintance in Boogie Wonderland. He wasn't drinking beer. That was Friday night.
While I was at Boogie Wonderland for a friend's birthday, Poolman texted me, telling me to meet he and his friend at BK. It wasn't until two blocks and three harassment accusations by bouncers later that Poolman told me BK isn't a bar or a club - it's Burger King.
I had met Poolman and his friend Playa at quiz night a few weeks ago at The Bog, an old church converted to an Irish pub a seven minute walk from where I live. A pipe organ suspends above the door to the bathrooms. Stained glass windows ornament the bathroom walls. Quiz night concluded at ten-thirty.
"I would give anything to be in a body of water right now. Seriously. This is the third day where all I want is to be in an ocean or a lake or a pool. That's all I want."
"There's a pool where I live," five beers responded for me.
"Oh, sweet as! Can we come over so I can swim? Just for five minutes?" Playa asked.
"Of course! I don't mind. Come over and go swimming!" I responded.
It wasn't until we were half a block from the house that it occurred to me that it was eleven on a Tuesday night. The parent's room overlooks the pool. The parents snag sleep as often as I enter bars sober. They have five kids. The youngest is four months. Despite my quasi-hesitations, Poolman and Playa went swimming, and splashed like drunk seals.
I met Poolman and Playa at Burger King and we went to A&M bar, and then to a late-night bar on the Viaduct. An hour later, Poolman and Playa wanted to leave. I stayed. I wasn't aware that it was 5am. As soon as the two guys left, everyone loved me. Men in suits made obscene gestures towards me, girls approached me to say their male friends thought I was the most gorgeous woman they'd ever seen, and some Irishman told me the Gaelic tattoo on my back means fuck me hard. Another Irishman said it translates as, I'm a whore. My Mac's beer bottle roared to the floor, and I believed them. The tattoo means loyalty, truth, strength.
I was as popular as if my nipples were spouting vodka.
Then the three hard alcohol drinks, bottle of wine, and five beers accumulated into me being a drunken destruction. I went to the bathroom to discover that my eyelashes were stuck together on one eye, my shirt was loose, glimpses of my breast were eminent, and stumbling wasn't a strange occurrence. The bar's men saw alcohol swimming in my eyes and wanted to capitalize. Hopefully my eyelashes hadn't been glued together the entire night.
I left the bar, caught a cab, and got home at 7am.
That night, I went to the Lady Gaga concert with the mom I work for and her sister. Lady Gaga is the clinically insane veiled by a stupendous voice. She donned masks, wigs, wings, prostitute make-up, and foot-high heels. She continually referred to the backup dancers as her "gay boys," and the audience as her "monsters." Fake blood filtered onto her white dress. She lit herself and the piano on fire.