Glory to Glitter

Perhaps I should rewind. Cut out the prose and cut in with reality - I mean, there’s a reason I earned the nick name dance party. Besides, as of late I don’t think I’ve been appreciating my surroundings enough. I haven’t stopped and marveled at my current circumstances even though they deserve it with the way fate has been harping my strings.

A few weeks ago, July 5th, I picked up my journal to write an entry for the first time in I wasn’t sure how long. My pages soon told me. My last dated entry was exactly 365 days before hand - July 5th, 2010.

Written there, I found a list; a list of my past life and future hope-worthies. Year old Carly had confessed this: “I want to move somewhere completely and utterly random.”

I smirked this year when I got to write my bullet: “I moved to Austin, Texas.”

While I’m still getting my bearings (barely the 2 month veteran), I’ve been in love with this city the moment I hit its blazing hot pavement and tasted its dry evenings. Always a hint of twang on the wind and neon pulsed, I can tell it isn’t the ordinary town - and it definitely does not produce the ordinary nights.

Last weekend, my first drink was taken amongst men who have stood up for those they never knew. My last drink? Taken amongst men who have bent over for those they never knew.

A veteran pub crawl to a gay club bathroom stall. A honky tonk to too much bedonka-donk. Glory, to glitter.

Arriving at the pub crawl, the bar that starts my night has a Texas flag emblazoned on the side of the building and wooden guard rails to pass through. Interior matches exterior, and my veteran friend and I watch in happy discontent as cowboy boots and hats clomp their way over a stage in the squarest dancing I’ve ever seen. We dropped our jaws as a bonafide cowboy, NOT a slutty girl in a halter top, climbs onto a mechanical bull and rides it like he wants first prize at the fair.

There was no doubting it here - we were in Texas.

Awhile later we walk back through the lone star flanked doors - it’s time to move on. A group of my new co-workers are at a nearby bar and I’m eager to get in some bonding time. On the way, we pass underneath rainbow flags and swanky clubs boasting indoor grottoes.

“Ooh, look!” I exclaim, entranced by the promise of a good time.

“No, Carly,” my friend sighs, “those are the gay clubs, and I am not going to the gay bar with you.” He grabs my arm and pulls me on to our destination, where we find my co-workers drinking, hanging out. The minutes stretch on and it’s getting late, only a half an hour until the night shuts down.

It’s around then that I shut down.

The night becomes a blur of vodka, lights and bass. We go to a stretch of bars called “Dirty Sixth”, each establishment crawling with those who don’t give a fuck. My head is drenched in booze, there’s fog machine smoke in my eyes. I can’t recall conversations, can’t recall why we decide we can’t stop at 2 a.m. I can’t recall why my friend tries to fight someone on the street.

With everything slipping in and out, my memory separates into clips. There’s a flash of weaving through a crowd, an instance of stumbling across an intersection, a blurb of seeing my manager on the street. I produce a short reel where I can see my manager in front of me, laughing, while I say something but I don’t know what. One sound byte comes through as we slip past the line at the club door:

“Its okay, we work next door.”

Inside flashes bright - blue, red, green, yellow lights dance off the disco ball and the only sound I know is thick treble in my ears. I’m surrounded by men without shirts and at one point I’m in the middle of a group of them. There’s a dancer wearing only red metallic spankies in a cage above me and people making out on a stage in front of me. My friend that would never go to a gay bar has somehow lost his shirt and has drooling homosexuals pining for him. My coworker is making out with some girl against a wall. My inhibition has stepped away to let my body move however it damn pleases.

I’m laughing. I’m moving. I’m dancing. I’m sweating. I’m blissfully unaware of time or consequence.

Next thing I know, it’s morning.

And consequence exists.

Throbbing, nauseating, consequence.

That night, my shift is shaky. It takes awhile, but I finally get the nerve to ask my manager: “Alright, Andrew, I remember seeing you and being really excited about it, but I have no idea what I said.” He laughs almost apologetically.

“Don’t worry about it. As long as it was outside the building, it doesn’t matter.”

“C’mon, don’t do that to me! What did I say?”

“You really don’t know?”

“Not a clue.”

He looks around slyly, “I don’t know if I should tell you, I don’t want rumors to start…” I turn pale at the endless possibilities of raucous irresponsibility that could’ve came out of my mouth.

“You really don’t know?” he asks again.

“…no.”

“Alright, I’ll tell you.”

He pauses for dramatic effect.

“You walk up to me….

and you go….

I JUST WANNA DANCE!”