A few weeks ago, I released on stream of consciousness upon the internet regarding my thoughts on State Street, freshman, and the general pointlessness of everything. It was great! You should read it just as you should read everything that I write here. Well, this weekend I decided to abandon my window voyeurism and join the masses for a night on the town. Dan does State Street!
The formalities of State Street. Exchanging glances with strangers. Smoking Newports with someone twice your age. Two girls crying on a curb. Smells of alcohol and bodily excretion.
The taxis pull away as the barricades go up. Soon the street will be filled with people. Hundreds of people, sometimes thousands. The sky threatens rain but that does not stop us. It is a Saturday night in Binghamton and we are Bearcats. Meow/Roar.
The doorman at Dillinger’s does a three second optical evaluation of my license. I am acceptable. I proceed to the final step of entry, paying the cover charge, and I am allowed in. The bar is crowded, but not yet packed. Dozens of people mill about drinking and socializing, celebrating whatever there is to celebrate in their lives. I promptly join my group of friends, who are in an intimate circle towards the back of the room. Greetings and eager recognitions.
I am told there are discounted vodka cranberry drinks. I order one from the bearded bartender who may or may not have made some inappropriate, albeit inaudible remark regarding my drink of choice. Vodka cranberry is not my drink of choice. I prefer almost any beer, dry red wines from the Napa Valley, and anything with gin in it. Vodka based beverages are sophomoric, in my opinion at least. There is a defined line between basic and simple. When my drink arrived, it fell considerably short of that line. It was not discounted either.
Refusing to acknowledge that I just spent seven dollars in less than three minutes, I put my back to the bar and engaged in conversation. I enjoy conversation. It is what binds us together and the bars have not figured out how to charge you for it yet. How would they do that? Charge you per word similar to how a penny tabloid compensates its writers? These are the important questions.
The volume of the music increases. The lights dim. Suddenly, there are many more patrons in bar. Someone threw up on the stairs and two burly men with shirts that are too tight trudge up the aluminum platforms, mop and buckets as armaments. I stare down at my drink to analyze my progress versus my inebriation. The numbers and figures seemed to be off. My mind drifted when the conversation became fragmented and slightly schizophrenic. Steeped in my own thoughts, I sipped my basic drink and subconsciously watched the people around me. The Great Stagger and Stumble.
Much to my dismay, a playlist of time-tested bar anthems begins. A mood of recognition and comradery envelops the room. People raise their glasses and take their shots. The girls enjoy singing along. Soon the air is filled with the shrill cacophony of a million voices. Everybody was looking somewhere, at their phones or their drinks. Some were looking up at a bartender who was now on the bar making an honest attempt at rapping. Everybody belted the last four words of every refrain to every song. Surely this is what it means to be alive. Going out is not about binge drinking or the allure of anonymous sex. Rather, it is about existence. It is the chance to experience the fullness of life, to celebrate the vitality of youth, and to acknowledge the common bond that we all share by singing along to mediocre songs that were written long before any of us were born.
Or I am completely wrong. That is likely. I may simply be in denial over how alarmingly hedonistic our culture has become. Hopefully not.
In keeping with my tradition of voyeurism, I venture up to the second story dancefloor. A group of seven girls danced to Fergie’s “Glamorous,” featuring Ludacris. A man in his thirties had a chinstrap beard, a backwards Yankees hat, and a jersey that said either “thug” or “thud” on the back. A rather heavyset woman in her forties sat by a pole surveying the dancefloor for vulnerable men. Unamused by this moribund scene, I complete my loop of the room and head promptly downstairs.
The great affair continues. A generous friend buys us a round of tequila shots. They are soon followed by amaretto sours. More songs play from the ceiling. We talk and we laugh. We celebrate and we reminisce over better days. The minutes slowly tick by and then become hours. The end to the evening, while still distant, is now in sight. I can feel my eyes getting heavy. My level of dizziness is becoming uncomfortable. Soon my allusions of grandeur are replaced by fantasies of fluffy pillows and blankets. People slowly peel off from the group and disappear into the night. Some leave in couples, others in groups. Then there are the people like me, the ones who left alone.
Out on the street I watched people. Girls were running in club attire and high heels. Guys were standing in clusters wearing polo shirts and boat shoes.. There were police officers drinking coffee. Two girls sat on a curb sobbing. At least they were not the same ones from earlier. Somebody shouted. I distinctly recognized the smell of pizza.
I was a part of all of this beauty. I had gotten out of bed, got dressed up, and consumed alcohol in a public place. I spent money at a local business. Next week, I am going to register to vote. I am a good citizen and an even better consumer.
What a night on the town! Most of the remaining people in my group had to take a bus back home to wherever, so we went to the bus stop. As I watched my fellow comrades depart home, I could not help but feel a sadness deep inside of me. The night was crawling to an end and this was very depressing. The next weekend was six whole days away and I panicked at the thought of having to continue my education, work, and watch the interest collect on my student loan. All good things must come to an end. I went back to my apartment and fell asleep. The next afternoon I woke up feeling as if I had just spent an eternity somewhere far off in a pleasant dream.
