When it comes to piecing together events to help us realize the impact of debauchery, we look to themes. Most such themes include music, environment, and people. On that front, it comes down to Bowie, hotels, and my best friend.
I suppose I feel a bit slack in not pitching in, but it is a bit tough to disagree when he is so persistent. No problems picking up the tab on his part. He repeatedly tells me, “Here’s to a taste of the yuppie lifestyle. You're getting it tonight,” between gulps of pinot noir.
I sip in agreement. “I can’t wait to be rich,” I tell him. Bowie’s final album accentuates all that this boils down to. The thought of never having a genuine worry over money, or not feeling that I'm mooching in any way by sipping cognac and wine that isn’t mine, gives me a sensation that borders on the euphoric, and I yearn for it to happen sooner than later.
Is this what my life has become? Yearning to make loads of cash, a constant desire for material things filling my thoughts, as though this is what a person lives for? After all, I have subsumed the old cliché of “you can’t take it with you when you go” into my everyday existence. Then again, I’m a nihilist, and a nihilist knows it's good to have pleasure while one is still here. And yes, this disregards the fact that there is no real thing such as pleasure. I’m a hedonist at heart, and that can never be replaced.
But that’s a lot to get into, and I’m not sure if this is the time or place for it. Either way, who doesn’t want to be rich? If you say so, I’d say you’re a liar. That, or just naïve.
But, back to the party. I go out for a smoke and get to talking with the people in the lobby when finished. As gone as I am, they hand me a beer. It’s cheap, yet refreshing, the glass a bottle rocket into further oblivion. Despite my misbehaving, somehow I’m allowed to stay.
And yet I think to myself, “My best friend just came up from West Virginia, and I can somehow only imagine him crying that we aren’t hanging out.” Now, he’s not the type to cry–I have never witnessed it, nor can I even picture it occurring–but at the same time, this is all I can think of.
As a result, I trek back to the room. In a split second of noticing him passed out, sprawled across his bed, I make an executive decision to return to a group from where I wasn’t exactly invited, nor dismissed.
After discussing such evergreen controversies as women, booze, and money, I'm escorted back to my room by a portion of the group, along with the management. It’s clear I have worn out my welcome, which may never have existed in the first place.
I suppose, ultimately, I should not have been there, but at the same time, it’s tough to dismiss oneself when everyone seems so inclined to let you join in.
