The apartment was trashed. Per usual. Disease-infused blue cushions were strewn about the ironically named living room, seeing as it was hardly ever livable. The dining table with its hideous vinyl yellow-orange tablecloth was filthy with sticky beers stains and other remains from the previous night's questionable activities. Shirtless white trash American boys milled about carelessly trailing ashes from their hand-rolled cigs of hash. Mulleted French disc jockeys came and went. Shrieking German could be heard from a room off the hallway. I casually took a few swigs of vodka alternated with sips of Fanta Limon, and then we were off.
The grafittied alleys echoed as the group tromped toward el estacio de sants, empty sound ricocheting off cobblestone and sheet metal. The metro station was no less eery. Dark. Deserted. Dank. Desperate.
The next few hours followed like a drunken stupor as our ragtag group wandered from city limit to city limit, club to club. Rejected at one for R's proletariat Converses. Bounced out of the other for being all around declasse. Scorned of entry at the next due to the dazed Dutchman, unfortunately ours, loping wildly about in a wasted frenzy. Our haggard bundle of grumbling frustrations finally stumbled on a building pulsing with a hypnotizing techno salsa beat. Giant black pillars of bouncers allowed us entrance with payment.
Thick smoke tinged by black light clouded the air, if you could even call it that. Rounds and rounds of salt, tequila, and lime cycled until everything was a hazy, heady mess. Sickened by the grinding chaos that presumed dance and the hard evidence being recorded in excess (I hope those photos burn in hell), I fought my way to the edge of the room. The fruits of my retreat: a stained cushion much like the ones we called furniture back at the flat. Dubious but I took it. I watched the group pair off. Two by two they backed into a corner up against the wall, sauntered to the bar for another round, descended on the leggy blonde Swedes.
I sat alone and tried to picture the world, the life I left behind. Sunshine yellow air, sandy beaches, a surfer boy. Buried in a throbbing crowd of inebriation six thousand miles away, I clung to the fading image of crashing waves and perfect sunsets. Suffocated by resurfaced memories and abandoned by the distracted group, I stumbled outside, choking on the crisp night air.
Four thirty am. No cell phone. No money. No working metro. No bus station nearby. No clue where in the city I had ended up. No idea how to get home.
I stood on that dim street corner attempting to make the most use of the light slivers from a solitary street lamp ten feet away. A shiver slid up my spine as a breeze rustled my silky shirt and lonesome stragglers stumbled lustily by, thinking everything of my unfortunately coincidental happenstance. A car sped by honking and catcalling as I hesitated on the sidewalk. Finally, a taxi slowed enough to notice my frantic wave. Carrer Bonaventura Polles porfa. He had no idea where the hell that was. After five long minutes of searching on a wrinkled map with no sign of recognition, I sighed resignedly. Just take me to the train station. I was anxious for the night to end.
The familiar hub loomed outside, and I hastily handed the driver the few crumpled bills and probably too many coins I had pulled earlier from a rando ATM a few blocks of wandering from the club. Still two miles to go before home. I lurked past abandoned construction sites, brushed past the grafitti faces and tin shed doors once more. This time the only echoes were that of my footsteps. I wound my keys around my finger, my eyes cautiously darting around, ready to strike if attacked. Made a right, made a right, took a left. Fumbled with a stubborn lock, wrestled a metal gate. Exhaustion crept up a slippery flight of stairs, and then finally, relief at long last crumpled onto the mold-encased bed.
