Our Final Hours
I graduated high school with a 1.6 GPA...
I don't know what percentile that falls under, I'd guess not a high one.
But c'mon, any jerk with enough likability can swindle his way through high school. Luckily, I was, and still am, one of those jerks.
What's truly bizarre is being asked to present our Dean on stage at graduation.
Imagine the shift: first being charged with expulsion by the Dean from middle school, to now having the privilege to present this wonderful, kind and caring woman to over 4,000 high school graduates, not to mention the overwhelming amount of family members invited to join.
As presenters, I and the others were given a few benefits:
For starters, we didn't have to wait in line like the rest of our chump friends, instead, we were hooked up with a special, V.I.P. entrance 'round back (Ok, not exactly, we were just allowed to enter the auditorium and take our seats before anyone else, but "special V.I.P entrance" sounds WAY sexier, doesn't it?)
Plus, we had the best seats. They were reserved on stage with our names taped against them. Talk about royalty.
The speech was a breeze. What was truly nerve racking, however, was walking through the isles, connecting eyes and nodding heads with my ex's father. Only in moments like those does death seem like the better option.
Anyway, I remember being on stage, sitting behind an English teacher who was known to rip me a new one whenever she had the chance. She turned to me, confused and concerned, whispering: "what the hell are you doing here?" My response; "enjoying the view."
We threw our caps in the air, waved our hands like we just didn't care, hugged, said our goodbyes, and parted ways. Some of us went to an after party, others went to grandma's to celebrate with their family, I, on the other hand, got to enjoy a fresh ride in my father's van, one that was picked up for his new career as a Driver. The Sprinter is a huge black Benz with enough space to fit 12 people who, if they wanted to, could stand in it with ease. For months my father had to climb mountains and swim through streams to get it. Coincidentally, the night he was given the keys to take it out of the shop, was the same night I graduated.
So there we were: just, me, my mom and my pops enjoying a smooth ride down the highway, driving to a local pizza shop before ending our trip back home. We were all excited, my dad for his new baby, my mom for parenting a graduate, and me for the future.
The warm months ahead had my every beck and call. I was ready, or so I thought, to end my summer victorious, with shiny trophies and accolades to boast about the townspeople. But, life doesn't give you what you want, it gives you what you deserve, and I was yet to earn my wishes.
These City Streets
Summer didn't start off how I planned it. You see, having just ordered an overpriced fake ID, I was ready to put that bad boy to use. I had a few buddies who knew their way around NYC and they were kind enough to tag me along a few nights out of the week.
Our playground of choice was the Meatpacking District. Entering the arena I immediately gravitated towards the high of the night. There was a mysterious, a somewhat eerie energy to the place that would keep any young buck, stuffed with hormones and curiosity, fully engaged.
It was just like in the movies. The bouncers were tall, stocky fellows, suited in black, with no hesitation to knock a fool down for getting out of line. On every corner you turned there was bound to be your scary, but friendly drug dealer, offering every type of escape imaginable. The women, well, they were just that, WOMEN. Their feet grounded, their skirts short, their language filled with class, and their eyes piercing cold.
I remember waiting to enter a club for the first time. The spot'came with a line long enough to turn the corner. I was shaking in my boots, the doorman wasn't giving access to guys with REAL ID's to the club, how in the world did I have a shot? Fortunately enough, I was blessed with some pretty savvy friends.
You see, clubs are designed to attract women. The reason is simple; where the women go, men will follow and these men will blow loads of cash intoxicating themselves and the women they want to go home with. So, the more women in the club, the higher of a chance some dude is going to use the oldest cliché in the book: "Hey, can I buy you a drink?"
My good friend and wingman, Ean, understood this. He had a plan of action and I followed his lead. He figured if we can befriend a group of gorgeous girls already on the line, then by the time we got to the front, it would seem as if we all came together, making us fellas seem more valuable to an establishment that thrives on a disproportionate surplus of women. That planned followed through seamlessly. The doorman didn't even bother taking out his flashlight to check my card, he just took a peek and let me in.
Le Bain was an animal all on its own. It felt like prom night on the first day of school. No one knew each other, but everyone had the same objective for the end of the night; to get laid. The music was intense, I could feel the bass boomin' through my chest. Everyone seemed taller, more confident, and disturbingly care-free. It was completely out of my comfort zone, and that was the best part.
Our night's always seemed epic; goofing around, shooting the sh*t, gaming up girls, dancing, eating late night panini's and cream cheese bagels and long hours spent walking around the city, seeing it's many faces.
Though this was a wild ride, one I hope to experience again, it had to come to a screeching halt. Late nights, strange women and crap food really took a toll on me. I was completely sidetracked, moving in the wrong direction. My life seemed cool, but I had nothing to show for it except a couple of funny stories.
I had to start producing results, I had to start making money...
But listen, It's 6 o' clock in the morning and I haven't had an ounce of sleep, it's time to get some shuteye. I promise I'll tell you the rest of the story next time.
