“Jillian, it’s slow – go ahead and clock out.”
This could’ve been the most beautiful sentence I’ve ever heard on a Saturday night when I haven’t gotten clubbing for weeks and I knew that at.that.moment. my friends were getting ready to head out.
I jumped on the phone,
“Girls! I got out early!! Where are you??”
“We’re at the Precinct, meet us there!”
I rushed home – got ready in record time – rushed out.
When I roll into Precinct – well, it’s crowded! 5 top at the bar (aka, the bar is at least 5 people thick all the way down), the dancefloor is a writhing mass of people, and there are even shoulder-to-shoulder amounts of people standing and talking.
I attempt to get a drink at the bar – as I’m stone-cold sober and my friends are, less so ^.^ After 20 minutes, I give up. I figured – it’s late already, I’d rather save my $10, I’ll just go dance!
Sadly, after just a short while, the DJ switches to a live band.
While this can sometimes be cool – in this instance, it just killed the vibe.
It’s getting near 1am.
“Girls, I don’t want to quit, but my feet are starting to hurt, and I just, this band is killing it for me…”
My friend looks up from her phone,
“Well, this guy I’ve been talking to says he can get us into a club in South Melbourne. Wanna try?”
So we jump into an uber – and down to South Melbourne we go.
As we’re waiting outside for the guy to come collect us (and get us past the line to get in),
“So, how did you meet this guy?”
“Tinder. I’ll admit, I’m so worried – you know my luck with Tinder, he’ll probably be tiny and ugly… but hopefully this club is good!”
Minutes later, a not-scrawny, rather attractive guy goes to the bouncers,
“These 3, they’re with me.”
And inside we’re ushered.
Out pops a gigantic bottle of Belvedere, some glasses, and red mixer.
My friends look at me with a slightly evil glint in their eye,
“Hey!” they yell, “She’s sober you know!”
Al looks at me incredulously.
“WHAT?! GET THIS GIRL MORE DRINKS!”
Soon my friend asks me to finish her drink.
Then the Belvedere bottle mysteriously fills up my glass.
I wake up on a couch in the morning.
The night comes racing back.
We left the club. Came to a house. We’re safe. I know exactly where my friends are.
Now it’s time to find my belongings and make sure I get to work on time…
I walk into the bathroom. Tiny shampoo, conditioner, and lotion bottles on the sink. With nicely folded towels.
Am I at a house?! Or a hotel…
I look out the window.
Definitely a house. Just you know – a mansion-y house…
I tiptoe down the stairs to the kitchen.
“Good morning.” says a gray-haired man who’s cooking eggs. “You look lost. Looking for your things? Downstairs.”
“Um… thanks,” I say, thoroughly confused as to where we are now but I CLEARLY remember no gray-haired gentlmen. “Um… what, what time is it?”
“8:30. I can’t believe you’re up to be honest. You guys didn’t get in until past 3:30 last night.”
Hmm… so he wasn’t with us. Owner of the house then?
“Um… could you tell me the nearest tram?”
He looks surprised, “You’re going to tram it? Not taxi?? Well, just down the street, turn left, you’ll walk straight to it.”
I go down the stairs, grab my things, run out the door.
It takes 1.5 hours to get home, but I manage it (looking utterly and completely walk-of-shame. I totally understand why the man asked why I wasn’t taking a taxi.).
The girls wake up a couple hours later and text me when they’re home.
“Hey – so was that Al’s mansion?” I ask later.
“Yes!” my friend writes excitedly. “I won Tinder! Woo hoo!”
“And did you meet the old guy??”
“No – his dad was out to brunch by then!”
So, mysterious old man explained.
And for the rest of the day I had to laugh. I went out sober – and woke up in a mansion. WHAT?!