Boots and Cats by John Tregoning

The music thumped up the stairs towards him in the queue. I’m way too old for this he thought, edging forwards. Much had changed since last time he had been to a night club; more remained the same. Ticket checked on his phone, driver’s license scanned. Why? No one in their right mind could possibly think he was 18, his age telling in the wrinkles on his face, the receding, greying hair, the middle-aged spread. But also in invisible ways: twinges, aches, sadness.

Music louder now. Through to the bouncer’s pat down. An exploration of his pockets – an even bigger tell, he not only had a wallet but actual cash unlike the all-electronic all-the-time generation. A perfunctory search of his shoes for illicit substances that he didn’t even know the name of. And then he was in.

And boots and cats and boots

The descent into music promised escape from what had been a long day, week, life. His own downward spiral reflected in the world around him. The morning’s news had been bleak, maybe no bleaker than the day before or the day before that, but a cumulative ratcheting of tension accompanied by a collective withering of empathy. The world’s power increasingly concentrated in the small hands of a small number of ageing, narcissists. The world’s anxieties piped directly to his phone. Fortunately, the underground club blocked the signal, stories disappearing from the screen as he descended, searching for his friends in the labyrinth.

And cats and boots

Louder now, the rhythm pulsed through his body as the lighting changed colours. The surging mass of people lit in staccato flashes, glimpses in different shades as they moved in time to the beat but stayed in the same place.

The man in the red hat.

The girl in the crop top.

The couple entwined.

And cats and boots

Lack of signal hampering his search, he wandered from room to room. Music changing, but not much. The DJ twiddling with things on the stage. An absence of physical records, just dials turned and buttons pressed. That same piano loop over and over, building, surging, never quite cresting, collapsing again to rebuild.

And with it the compulsion to move his body, foot tapping, arm waving. A fleeting expression of connection with others, shattered by glimpses of what he’d lost. Knowing there was nobody to go home with afterwards; nobody to share the hunt for a cab, sweat cooling in the night; nobody to get cheesy chips and leave them congealing in the kitchen; intimacy interrupted by booze and lust and adrenalin. The beat drummed on, the crowd danced on, insensitive to his isolation.

He walked to the bar where he finally found a friend, beer in one hand, partner in the other.

‘Mate’

‘Mate’

‘Beer?’

The music now so loud it prevented anything more intimate. Beer procured, past over and drunk. The friends walked to a different corner of the room he’d first searched, revealing the rest of the gang in the flickering lights. Handshakes, bear hugs, air kisses. Colours changing, his friends emerging in the strobe; his friends, none were her friends.  He entered the group, hoping proximity would help ease the loneliness. And they danced.

Flashes revealed glimpses of others. Red hat man still dropping shapes, now making passes at crop-topped girl. Crop-topped girl dancing on oblivious; occasional piercings reflecting the light. The entwined couple had parted, but reformed with two other people.

Boots ands Boots and Boots and Boots

The DJ changed, but as with the outside world, replaced by another middle-aged man, slightly worse than before. The beat drummed on. His friends danced on. The lights flashed on. Red hat man remained alone, hat at a jauntier angle, shapes thrown more irregular. But who was he to judge, shuffling awkwardly, not knowing where his hands should go, sometimes up, sometimes down.

More shouted snatches of conversation.

‘Sorry about…’

‘How are you coping…’

‘Any luck with…’

Empty words drowned out by big beats and hi-hats.

And boots and cats

He was surrounded by people, flesh against flesh, a heaving mass of togetherness. Forced up against the crop top girl half his age, he felt awkwardness and desire. Hormones flooded his frame. The beer didn’t help. It never did. Judgement impaired, he reached out towards her, as he had reached out for another her, another night. Then the beat changed and the red-hat man crashed into them both pushing him to the floor and her away, blissfully ignorant.

The close proximity of so many people, the niggling worries of the news and the longer term pain of his situation rotating in rapid succession, in no obvious order, with no separation. Why had he done it? Would the bombing continue? Would she come back? What was going to happen to oil prices? How was he going to get his record collection back? When would red hat man puke? Nuclear winter or annihilation? All the while the music surged, occasional snippets of lyrics repeated by the crowd.

‘Lager, lager, lager, shouting’

Back to the bar they went, pushing further and faster into the night, hunting the perfect buzz.

‘Shots?’

Brightly coloured, gloopy liquid in small plastic glasses passed around the group. Seldom did they make the night better, seldom did he resist them. The sensible ones discretely dumping the contents, the reckless ones ploughing onwards.

And boots

The evening looped around like the music, red hat, crop top, close couple, red hat, best mate, hugging, vuvuzela, shot glass, different DJ, same beat. His thoughts whirred onwards.

‘Where you going?’.

‘I’ve got to text her, I’ve got to sort it out’.

He pushed through the crowd and up the stairs, desperate to get bars. Nearing the exit, his phone lit up. A string of government alerts and news bulletins. The worst had after all happened. He looked down – nothing, no blue ticks on his desperate message.

He turned back round, embracing the beat as the bombs fell.

And cats.

John Tregoning

Image: A smokey night club full of people dancing, arms raised from Pixabay.com