Chapter 6: Frogger

I got the two guys to drop me off on the other side of the road from Purple Haze. I pretended to be a frog and did the wild dash across the traffic.

I headed into the bar, up three flights of stairs and into the club. The walls had neon colored paintings of classic rock “legends.” Grateful Dead, Jimmy Hendrix, Ozzy, et al. They were all immortalized in black light friendly colors with slightly askew faces glowing at the drunken patrons.

It was packed. I made my way past all of the tables and found the bar towards the back. Metallica blasted at ear piercing volumes as I found a small spot on the bar. “….’till the Sandman he coooommmeesss. Sleep with one eye open, gripping your pillow tiiiigghhhhtttt. Exxxiittt light! Enter niiight! Say youuurrr prayers. Off to never never land…”

I make myself stick to beer when I am out. If I touched the Hard Stuff, I would definitely end up in a compromising situation. I got myself a very nice buzz, none-the-less. After a total of 8 beers, it wasn’t too hard. *gulp*

The guy sitting on my left was some IT engineer, mellow, and pretty nice. We chatted it up pretty well.

“What the…? REM right next to Metallica? How strange…”

“Oh yea, they do that all the time here.”

Once 11:30pm came rolling around, which you have to understand is last call time here in India, I had a very thick buzz and a drive to rip the town apart. My new friend, Sameer, didn’t seem like a heavy partier or anything, but 11:30 was early for him too.

“Is there any ‘after hours’….heh….parties or clubs here?” I asked unable to hold back my laughter and disappointment.

“Yea yea! There is this place, The Club, out on the other side of town…and there is a place down the street about a kilometer.”

“Oh man, I’ve already hit up The Club (below: a picture of the Finish band I saw at The Club) twice. No need to go all the fucking way out there. I want to stay closer to home.” This statement would later appear to be a poorly executed joke.

We headed down the road, hit up an ATM, and then went for the club on a side street. It was called The Inn and had a large group of young hipsters, tourists, and westerner re-locaters hanging around it. It reminded me of a posh SF nightclub. Neon backlighting, only the special kids getting in, and that weird Florida vibe almost seeping from the WMC (that I missed this last year…fuck).

“No stags,” the doorman poked.

“What?” I drunkenly spat.

“No stags. You need a date to get in.”

I mumbled some obscenities under my breath, but I had a few under my skin and thought I was a bit more special than the rest. I was going to try and use my magic Samson powers.

It eventually worked. I’m not sure how, but me just being a Cool Guy, and acting like it was just a pure simple fact that I should be inside, worked. I wasn’t being a dick, I was just pretending to be amazed that I wasn’t getting in. T.bias wasn’t getting in. I said, “Do you know who I am?!” with my body language. It works more than you might think.

I eventually called my new friend over, “hey, they are letting me in!” turned to the doorman and said, “oh yea, and my friend too.” I felt like a girlfriend who had just pulled up her skirt to hitch a ride while her boyfriend was waiting in the ditch next to the road only to pop out once the deal was sealed.

Inside it was a packed dance club. Just like in the states. Almost exactly like the states, except with more Indians.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Drunkenness set in. Oogling set in. Mindless conversation took hold. Memory loss was abounding.

I eventually ended up on the roof of this three story, neon backlit joint. There was a large amount of westerners kicking it just like home at a house party. Booze sloshing around in their hands and minds while their mouths yapped on with people thought to be friends, when no one even knew each other’s name. I was right with ‘m yarbbling a good bit, and sloshing around all I could. I ended up chatting it up with a somewhat cute Whitey, though her sides still showed the marks where the cookie cutter etched her out, with bobbed blond hair and a knee high whitey-white-white skirt. She was married, that came out early in the conversation, though it did not matter, and she was here for business, though she could not say why.

“I saw you walking down Commercial earlier today.”

“No way.”

“You def'nit'ly saw some other Caucasian Dread Boy in India, really.”

Did she buy it? Well, more accurately, did she laugh? It wasn’t either a put on or a joke, if you were to take it for what it was worth. Just bad. Actually, I did try to push it off as a joke. I probably chuckled at my own drunken foolishness.

As we chatted she asked me how long I had been in India. “Oh, about two and a half weeks at this point.”

“Really? Kuz you have the head-bob down pat.”

I ticked, bobbed my head, and said, “Neh? What bobbing?”

I ticked twice more with a snap of my tongue slapping back away from my teeth, “Tk tk, oooohhhhhh, mmmm,” as my head bobbed back and forth like a plastic hula dancer on a Honda civic’s dash board coming home from college. My neck was made of jell-o in order to present my current state of thoughtfulness. Oh crap, she was right. I do have the head-bob down, and the worst part was is that I wasn’t doing it on purpose. It just happened. I picked up both the head swaying and bobbing of an Indian saying, “Wellll…..ehhh….hrrm….” with body language, in addition to the TICK TICK TICK they make with their tongues in either disappointment or saddening thoughtfulness. I had it, and jesus-fuckin-christ, it hasn’t gone away either. I’m coming home with this affliction.

While writing this, I caught myself bobbing my head, TICK TICK TICKIN G, and say “oh mannnnnnn” in disappointing realization…really.

After even more drunken bouts of bladder evacuation and knocking down bottles that shattered on the floor, I ended up having so many inane conversations it would bore this reader to go on and on. To sum it up, I talked to a travel journalist who said, “You have to go to SnarglybuttfuckIdon’tfuckingremember.” And a guy from Whitey’s group who made a joke about cutting off a dread lock of mine. I made a joke, back, about how easy it would be to return the favor, but instead aim for a major artery, the jugular perhaps, instead of a lock of hair. It was all in good humor until the guy said, “Nothing one fucking bullet wouldn’t fix,” in a, well, not so friendly manner. I drunkenly giggled and every time I saw the guy I’d make a joke about how easy it would be to kill his ass, then pat him on the shoulder like old buddies.

The “after party” ended, the lights came on, and we were all pushed out of the club. At this point the liquor had flipped the meter for All Night Partyin’! I had no choice but to pull out my fencing gear and battle for the next party. “Where to, my good man!!!” I drunkenly spat to my friend Sameer.

“Lets find an after party, man! Wooooo!” I bellowed.

“Go ask that girl and the guys you were chopping it up with,” he said.

“Uh….they are heading with a ‘I’m Goin Home to Get Laid’ sorta look.”

“I know after party, you come, I take,” said the voice on the side.

Without quite thinking much I said, “Where’s the after party?!” Then I thought enough to evaluate the situation and try to decide whom it was I was talking to. Sameer was in a discussion with a rik driver.

“I know all night party, come,” he said with a sober head.

Sameer then began to talk, bargain, poke, question, and overall I-don’t-know-what since they were speaking in Hindi.

Somehow, for some reason, we ended up in the guy’s rik’ being led away to an all night after party in God-Knows-Where. I assumed that Sameer had his wits about him, and knew exactly what was going on. I mean, he is the local, right?

After a good 20 minutes we started to poke out from the city. “Sameer, where are we going, man?” I said.

“I dunno man….he says he knows of a good all night party somewhere,” he lightly poked into the air of uncertainty.

“Great,” I said and braced myself for the unknown.

<< 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 >>