A Year Being a Regular: Part I

I found myself perched atop a black stool, hands resting on the cold surface of the bar. My glass of eighteen year-old scotch was keeping me company while my eyes were fixated on the television screen. The most incredible Playoffs in the last ten years was taking place, and I couldn't have been more ecstatic. I could've caught the NBA games in the comfort of my own home or out at a sports bar with some friends, but I didn't. Instead, I was sitting by myself, sipping on my eighteen year-old scotch at a strip club. I was open about my solitary visits to the strip club with my friends, but much to their ire. Their befuddlement on what seemed to be a developing addiction had them searching for the answer to my unacceptable lifestyle choice. The answer was simple, though: I was disenchanted with life. just two years out of college, I found myself slaving away at a job in an industry I had no prior desire to be in. All my previous notion of damning the man and living with reckless abandon had somehow been chucked out the door. In its stead were thoughts about my 401k, thoughts about investment in real estate, thoughts about getting a career that would best support a family I didn't even have yet. When the hell did it all go wrong? My last act of defiance was to pilfer my money into superfluous things. I bought games I wouldn't even play, clothes I never wore, tools I would NEVER use. Eventually, this decree culminated in the ultimate act of fiscal irresponsibility. As I sat there taking another sip of my eighteen year-old scotch, I realized the strip club became my out, my escape... my sanctuary. The Heat is busy shutting out Derrick Rose from the Bull's offense. It was beautiful. From the corner of my eye, I notice a gorgeous blonde. I steal a glance. Even though she's dressed in a provocative outfit, she was busy munching away on some chicken fingers. Hey, a girl's got to eat. In the midst of admiring her beauty, an older man with a backwards cap swept in on her. With a cocky lean against the bar, it was obvious he had picked his infatuation for the night. My attention shifted back towards the game. Ten minutes later, the man in the backwards cap retreats to the men's bathroom. She's still slowly working on her wings. Right in the middle of a fast break by LeBron, I feel a tap on my shoulder. She had leaned over to get my attention. "Hey, look, can you scoot over one seat?" I throw her a confused look, "Um, isn't your guy still sitting here?" She grimaces, "What? That guy? Hell no, he's not my regular. He's some asshole who keeps telling me he's working on the set of some movie, trying to get me to do some dirty shit, and eating my fucking food!" I laugh, "Serious? I thought you two were buddies or something, that's why you guys were sharing the chicken fingers." "What? No. He just fucking came over and started eating off my plate. I have no idea who he is. And I don't want to." "Well, alright." I shift down a seat. She smiles at me. "Thank you." And promptly returns to finish her food. How she managed to eat that trash and stay so in shape was beyond me. "Um, wait. Isn't this his?" I point at the half-drunk bottle of beer sitting in front of me. I see the cogs grinding in her brain. "Eh, whatever." Five minutes later I see the old man with the backwards cap slowly walk towards the bar. From the corner of my eye, I could see his dejected look. His head was down, hands in his pocket, and slowly shuffled away - the timeless image of rejection. I turn to the blonde, who's already looking at me with a huge grin. "Fuck yea! Thank you for that!" She raises her glass that was filled with an overly-sweet vodka mix. I raise mine and we have a celebratory toast. We take a sip out of our collective glasses and set them down. "So what's your name?" "Jack. Yours?" "Alanna." she says with a warm smile. This was how I met Krystal... and the beginning of the yearlong decline of my expensive habit.