My friend Carl and I decided to go out dancing on Thursday night. The last time we went out together on a Thursday night, we ended up at a gay bar with the entire dance floor to ourselves. You could practically hear the crickets chirping.
This time, we decided to go to a straight bar in the hopes of finding Vancouver’s elusive Thursday night hot spot. The first place we hit seemed promising. But once we got past the metal detector, and the haze from the smoke machine cleared, we realized we were the only people in the club.
So we chugged our watered-down drinks and hailed a cab to ‘80s night in Gastown. Unfortunately, our cab driver didn’t know how to navigate the 10 blocks or so from Granville Street to Gastown and started driving the wrong way through red lights at about 90 km an hour. I squeezed my eyes shut while Carl, who also didn’t really know how to get to Gastown, tried to give directions.
After a few wrong turns, we eventually made it to Gastown but were forced to wait in line outside the club in the pouring rain. This gave me time to hatch a plan on how we both could get free drinks all night. All I had to do was make eye contact, smile, and start a conversation with random guys. When they asked if I’d like a drink, I’d say yes and then ask for one for my friend (without disclosing the fact that my friend was an eccentric Quebecois male).
Once inside, I put the plan into action. Despite the fact there were hundreds of potential drink buyers in the room, my attempts at subtle flirtation were getting us nowhere. Carl claimed no guys were approaching me because I was hanging around him, which was barely true considering he spent half the night in the bathroom or at the bar.
As we made our way onto the crowded dance floor, a girl with long brown hair and a mesh tank top caught my eye – mainly because every time I turned around, she was kissing a different guy.
"That is how you get a guy to buy you a drink," Carl said.
The closest I got to any action was in the women’s washroom. I had exited the stall but was blocked at the sink by three girls crowded around the only mirror. They had pulled down their tops and were comparing their breasts. As I squeezed my way under three pairs of bare boobs to wash my hands, I overheard one of them complain about how small her breasts were. To which her friend replied, "At least yours are real. Mine are so fake."
Next time I go out with Carl, I’m going to suggest we do it on a Friday night. I’m starting to think there’s a reason no one goes out on Thursday nights in Vancouver.