Short Story from English 354

Very Important People


We’re here to look pretty, take ridiculous amounts of pictures, and get drunk. Preferably for as little money as possible. We’re not mooches. Regularly we’ll buy a pitcher or two and let the rest of the drinks come to us. The strangers rarely bite.


It doesn’t matter what day of the week it is, we’ve even done Sundays, although expect to bring cards for entertainment on off nights. We generally depart between 10 to 10:30, unless somebody doesn’t hop in the shower til 9:45, and then we arrive at 11. That’s never fun. Of course we know the bouncer, he waves us right in like the very important people we know we are, usually donning denim minis and leggings or the most butt flattering jeans we can squeeze into. One of us always wears the boob shirt. Mostly that’s me. Don’t wear shoes TOO nice because they will ALWAYS be spilled on.

Sometimes we have a table, but more often than not we head right for the dugout. We let the guys come to us. Typically, we “run into” our male counterparts. They are regulars as well, who hide in the dugout waiting for girls to come to them. They’re pretty much the beer providers for the rest of the night. When they’re occasionally feeling extra friendly we receive mixed drinks and shots.

Be careful about expressing interest in a stranger or one of the girls will push, no shove, you into him. Otherwise, fresh meat can come in the form of one of the girls’ co-workers or a friend of our regular guys. It’s always pretty loud, so the conversations never reach real depth.

“That necklace is Tiffany’s, isn’t it?”
Be still, my heart. “How do you know?”
“I used to get it for my ex-girlfriend.”
Ex-girlfriend is the universal bar-phrase for single.
“Have you seen that stand in the campus center? They sell fakes,” he lifts my necklace, “look just as good.”
What’s that noise? My heart has started beating again.

The grass is always greener on the other side, and girls always want what they can’t have, especially their friend’s bodies. Not in a sexual way, but in the “your waist is smaller” “but your boobs are bigger” kind of way. This eventually leads to the boob-grabbing part of the night. For some reason it is perfectly acceptable for girls to touch each others chests. It’s usually a playful poke, although some of us have endured all out grabs from our friends. It usually gets the attention of every male within eyesight, although that is not the purpose at all. The purpose? Still unknown. What is certain, however, if a guy were to attempt to join in on all this fun he would A) lose his hand, B) get thrown out of the bar, followed by C) miss out on all our picture taking because he is too busy getting his very own mug shot. Shame for them really.

Once everybody is good and liquored up Bon Jovi, Journey, or some other 80’s drunken sing-a-long fave starts playing. If you don’t know the words then you obviously do not hang out with us enough, or have never been to a college bar. We know the songs have been played specifically for us, because who doesn’t want to hear us sing off-key the ballad of that small-town girl living in a lonely world?

Shortly after we’ve made it clear to the world that we belong on American Idol, last call is announced. Time to chug down whatever’s in our hand, and head on out. The night is far from over. We have no qualms with freezing our asses off to get a free piece of pizza. We’re not mooches, we’re just hungry. Why waste money that you’ll need for going out again tomorrow? After all, tomorrow there will be new guys to flirt with, but they better come to us, because we’re far too important to break away from our circle and meet them. And they better not believe in fake Tiffany’s.