One Saturday in 2009 (April 13th, 2012)

        I'm super excited that I just found this, it's a recollection of a day in 2009 that I wrote in 2012 - wild that I still remembered so many details three years later. This day was almost ten years ago now - I still remember the story about the guy breaking his dick, and a few other little details came back to me as I read it, but a lot of it is gone.
        What's funny to me about this though, is the sense of nostalgia that I already had for the time in my life I'm depicting in this story. I honestly thought this story was so unique and special, and that it warranted telling to the world. It's pretty mundane really, just standard 20-year-old drug shit, but it's interesting for the fact that in my grand naivete I thought it was interesting at the time. The grinch in me wishes I could go back to my younger self in disguise and show him this story, to drive home the point that staying out all night taking drugs is in no way important or special, but I think if I had the power to do that, I'd just go back and watch, smiling at the blissful innocence.

        Black shoes, black pants, if it weren't for the black button-up shirt I could feel like I'm going back to school in this uniform. The last few weeks at Reds have been getting better and better. “Finding my feet,” I think clearly to myself as I stare back from the mirror and decide whether to do up the top button or leave it undone. “Of course you fucking leave it undone, idiot.” Grab my bag with the zip that gets stuck halfway down on the left hand side that reads 'Aidan Jones 712' – my unit number from scouts. If only they could see me now... out the door and onto the tram at 8:25, into the city at 9.

        As I approach the trees sparkle with fairy lights and tacky allure, past the strip club first, 'The Palace'. Bouncer shakes my hand. “Hey Taco.”
        “Hey man, have a good night.”
        The usual crew of regulars sit out the front of the club in the smoker's area at 9:05, having already been in for free and got their stamps because they are friends with the bouncers too, we all work here. I sit down after slapping a few hands and bumping a few fists and lock eyes with Sleepy with a cheeky grin on my face.
        “Oooooh I'm not giving you a fucking cig dude.”
        “Cheers man,” I laugh as I take the Stuyvesant red out of his pack and mime the movement of lighting a cigarette lighter with my hand until the air between my fingers is replaced by a someone's Bic lighter.
        “Are you sure this isn't my lighter dude?” I laugh
        “It's not though,” says Tom, “gimme my fucken lighter back Taco.” I lean back in my chair and enjoy my cig, fifty minutes to sit and chill before I start work at ten.

        The smoker's area of Red Square would be called a beer garden at any other pub, but it isn't really a beer garden at all for a few reasons. Probably the most striking of all being that it is in no way, shape or form, a garden, but that never stops the name being used elsewhere. It's a fenced off area of raised footpath that is licensed especially by the club's high-rolling owner that sits between the unlicensed footpath, itself about 2m wide, and the street. The fence rings around the whole area and leaves a small entrance which is always guarded by a bouncer who is charged with making sure that there are only as many people in the smoker's area as there are chairs, and that they are all sitting down – a stipulation of the license.
        As far as appeal, the garden is nice for sitting outside of the blaring bass and flashing lights of the club inside, and is utilised by smokers for smoking, drug dealers for drug dealing, and is usually populated by wide-eyed pill heads twisting and flinging their heads around as they try and control the rising fear in their stomachs. I guess you could justify it being called a garden by pointing out that there are some trees in big pots that line the perimeter facing the street, but those trees are fake and the pots are more useful as giant ashtrays than arboreal habitats. Also the strict license meant that no beer, or any other alcohol, was to be allowed within the area between some obscure hour and some other obscure hour which no one ever seems to know, but at 9pm on a Friday or Saturday night, the seats start to fill up.
        “So what's goin on?” I throw the question out to the four or five of us all sat around the round table as I take a satisfied drag from my cig.
        “Yeh fuck all ay,” someone invariably spits back; the 'f' of 'fuck' is used like a springboard to launch into the rest of this essentially meaningless phrase.
        “Just got stamped, Sketch just doubled.” I turn my eyes to Sketch who is sitting just to my left with his hands in his lap, texting on a phone I don't recognise. It may or may not be his.
        “Whaddaya got tonight? Well... who's got what?” I ask.
        "White strikers,” Tom answers as he looks up from counting out a small amount of money under the table, then looks around to see if any of the bouncers or anyone at all is watching. The barrier of the smoker's area is great for hiding this kind of routine activity and with that on the left and someone else blocking on the right, quick hands under the table can hide whatever needs to be hidden.
        “So are they any good or what?” I ask interestedly.
        “Guess I'll fucken know in 45 minutes ay,” laughs sketch as he turns his head up from his phone and cracks a huge smile at me, a small laugh comes first from him, and then from me and everyone else at the table. Sketch's eyes dart around for a second and then go back to his phone as he gets a message. Tom smiles a sly smile at me as he puts his hand up to his mouth and then grabs a drink of pineapple cruiser from the bottle on the table. I smile the knowing smile back.
        “Fingers crossed,” I chuckle and get up to go to the bar because I just finished my cig and want to get a pre-work drink and see who else has already started. A girl sitting on a guys lap introduces herself as I get up;
        “By the way, my name's Sarah”
        “Oh hey, what's up, I'm Taco.” And I walk off. I think I recognise the guy beneath her, but I don't stop to give him the opportunity to say something and figure out that I don't remember his name. As I walk off I get the feeling that tonight will be a good night... well they're all good nights at Red Square anyway, but I'm not in a bad mood and I'm about to start work, and that's an important thing to be able to say in life.

        Tom and Sleepy will both be dealing inside all night and Sketch will be talking to people and making sales for them as well. Dylan, who isn't here yet, will either be dealing or dancing with a new girl. I'll be out on the dancefloor, picking up empties and rubbish and dancing in front of the floor-to-ceiling mirrors whenever I get the chance. One thing we have in common though, that lights up my eyes in anticipation, is that by sunrise the next day we will all have eaten a few of those white strikers – white pills with two little indented lines ('strikes') on them – and be off our fucking faces. Loving life and ready to party.

        The front bar that faces out onto the street is open 24 hours a day, 7 days a week; it's called Pour24 and isn't part of the actual club, but Flick works there and she says a quick hello to me before getting me a vodka and squash. I go back outside and sit with everyone again but don't say much. Then at ten I get up again and say, “seeyaz inside” to a chorus of 'peace's and the night begins.

        Going in through the back door of the bar and dumping my bag behind the bar I'm greeted, in order, by bartenders Vipul, Leon, Nath, and then Steve, the head glassy. Then Stephen, the manager, and Josh, another glassy. Anthony, the owner's mid-thirties son. Regulars at the bar; Elliott and some guys whose names I forget. Becky and Sian, and Polly and Jaki and Nick and Ryan and Hennie and Josh and Dan. DJ Matt Decker waves from the DJ booth and I do a quick lap of the floor to see who else is in. I won't say anything to these people all night because the music is too loud, and in truth I don't really know them at all, but it helps to remember names. Even though I might not know what Joshie Boy's day job is, or what school Becky went to or what Matt Decker's favourite song is, that doesn't matter tonight, because tonight we are all at Red Square, why ask any more questions?

        The club slowly fills up over the next two hours as more people I don't know shuffle through the double-doors wearing their best confident look as they scan the crowd for recognisable faces. Some of them shake my hand and we lock eyes, sharing the same look of strained familiarity. “If he's friends with me, then I'm friends with him... that's another friend for me,” we all think this. We all smile. The mirrors in the corner of the dancefloor are my favourite place and I make sure to stop by for thirty seconds every time I pass to dance and watch myself. Sometimes other people watch too, so I stop to watch them and we all clap and all shake our heads to the music with beaming smiles and hoots and shouts when someone can really dance well. Slapping hand-shakes all round.

        I go into the back room where electro house is replaced by RnB but the vibe is still the same. The girls jump up on stage and grind eachother to the music as the guys who desperately try and join them are pushed back by bouncers shaking their heads. Oh you fools, how I pity you, don't you know how things work around here? Only girls can dance on the stage. I shake my head and laugh to myself, because I know how things work around here.

        Pete and Vivian work the back bar and throw drinks out to the sea of faces that swamp us from all sides. “Want a shot?” Pete yells into my ear, straining over the music, “Vivian doesn't want hers.”
        “What is it? I ask him, looking around to check for managers.” I'd never drank anything while actually clocked on before. Tonight is perfect, the lights flash and the music doesn't stop.
        “Mango vodka!” Pete yells back as he raises his shot to me and motions that I do the same, so I do.
        “Cheers!” I yell. He's already to work as my throat burns with the satisfying sweetness of mango-flavoured alcohol. Back onto the floor. More dancing. The sea of faces whiz by and I see Sketch and Dylan dancing in front of the mirrors as the crowd starts to thin out around 6am. It's not an effort just to move now and my shoulders spread back to their full width as I walk around the club, picking up empties and rubbish and dance whenever I get the chance. Steve knocks me off at 6:30am and we do a shot of Bacardi 151 to celebrate; “GO GET DRUNK!” He laughs, I'll be there with you as soon as this place shuts.

        Just as I walk back down the the end of the bar to grab my back and clock off Tom walks up on the other side and calls me over. “Sorry man I'm not serving,” I say quickly.
        “Yeh yeh I know... oi... want a lolly?” He asks smiling at me.
        “Yeah sure.” I put my hand out and he slaps a rainbow coloured pill into my hand, about half the size of your smallest fingernail.
        “Rainbow doves, just found ten of 'em on the floor,” he laughs as if he can't believe himself. Jumps up, pushing himself off the bar, and bounces out the door and back outside.

        A few hours later I find myself in a slightly hidden VIP room with Sketch splitting the pill that Tom had given be a few hours earlier. Sketch adds reassuringly; “don't worry man it's fine, they won't even be able to tell... who cares you're not working any more.”
        “Yeah that's true... fuck it,” I drop the half in my mouth and wash it down with some green pulse before jumping back up and heading outside. A girl called Carmen is sitting with Tom and introduces herself to me accordingly.
        “Hey I'm Carmen.”
        “Oh hey, what's up, I'm Taco.”
        “So are we ready to go?” She looks around.
        “Yeah let's do it,” Tom gets up from his seat and me and sketch follow then down the back-street that marks the edge of Red Square's licensed area, we jump in Carmen's parked car as she drunkenly opens the driver's side door and gets in.
        “You pingin' yet?” asks Tom casually, not because he's worried about her driving, but because he wants to hear her say yes.
        “Not yet, but soon though.”

        The sun gets higher in the sky and the morning has well and truly begun by the time we get to some girl's house and file in through her front door to find her putting on her make up in the bath room while a guy sitting on the bed clasps a towel between his legs. The pills are kicking in and my eyes dart from one interesting shadow to another quick movement that happens just out of my field of vision. My mind jumps from one beautiful thought to the next. I let out a moan and breathe all of the air in my lungs out through my lips as me and Sketch wander aimlessly through the house. This girl and Carmen are exchanging comments with eyes rolled.
        “Yeah my stupid boyfriend couldn't control himself and pushed it in too fast, he broke his dick and now we've gotta go to the hospital.”
        “No Sunday sesh then?” “Nah fuck that we'll probably be there for a while, he started bleeding and everything check the towel”
        “You're an idiot –”
        Me Sketch look at eachother, almost in disbelief as our faces contort, struggling to comprehend the information overheard from the bathroom.
        “BuuuuuuuuuuuhhhhH!!!?!” Strange sounds escape through our mouths and we walk quickly outside, he can't deal with that right now any more than I can and we go back to the car. Sketch is dancing on the road while I sit on the bonnet of the car smoking one of Tom's cigarettes after taking his pack from the passenger seat. The smoke rises into the air from the lit tip and disappears as the wind takes it away through the trees. I settle into a patch of light between the shadows on the metal hood of the car and feel the morning heat go through my body. “Sunday sesh.” I repeat the words over to myself. “A session on a Sunday... the weekend doesn't stop when the sun comes up. I could do this forever.”

        We drive through the city a little and sit on the grass in the gardens as my high starts to wear off, I look in my wallet; $10. Tom already gave me another one on tick before, and I should probably get home anyway. Tom is talking to some guy in the parking lot as a family with a young kid pull up in their car not twenty metres away. The little boy gets out of the car and runs up to me which completely freaks me out – “don't you understand what is going on little boy? Don't you realise what you're doing?” That sort of contact with the real world is way too much to handle at midday on a Sunday, so I say goodbye to everyone and head home, comedown just starting to rear its ugly head.
        I bustle through the front door, mutter a quick hey to my parents, who are watching TV, race through the shower, and get into bed. I bet they are none the wiser. I bet they have no idea what I did last night.