Grey's Journal:
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So, when Marine told me her younger sister came to London for Halloween weekend, I had to meet her -- even if it was in a club in Leicester Square on a Saturday night, a place I would otherwise avoid. All the beautiful, fashionable and trendy people go there to show off and it's clear I don't belong among them. Marine and her sister found me, looking lost and out of place, waiting on line to get into the club. Both women were the same height, the same slender build, with the same length dirty-blonde hair. They were even wearing the same style outfit: black pants with a red top. They looked like two alternate versions of the same person as sisters should. We started talking and Marine informed me that after working at an internship, she secured herself a proper grown-up job in advertising with the vague title of account handler. Then I filled her in on my own recent life: ``I'm working with twelve to sixteen year olds in my placement school and I like it so far. But, I think when I apply for jobs I'd rather teach A-level physics to seventeen and eighteen year olds.'' Marine's sister looked away toward the ground until I stopped talking -- the same gesture I make when I want to momentarily distance myself from a conversation. This made something Marine told me about her sister surface in my mind: Marine's sister is seventeen. This girl, who could easily pass for twenty-one, was young enough to be one of my students. King's College advises its trainee teachers that if we run into one of our under-age students in a pub we should run like hell out of there and pretend we didn't notice them. But what to do if we're out with someone under-age at a club? I spent the rest of the evening awkwardly interacting with Marine's sister. Once past the bouncer and inside the club, Marine headed for the dance floor. This, for her, is the fun of the night. For me, I need to drink quickly to diminish my discomfort. Fortunately, my alcohol tolerance is low and in situations where I need to rid myself of embarrassment I hold the alcohol in my mouth so it is absorbed through the tongue and directly into the blood stream for a faster, more potent effect. This is the sort of useful information one picks up when preparing to teach biology. On the dance floor, it wasn't five minutes before some guy made a move on the two blonde, French sisters, trying to dance with both of them, putting his hands around their waists, then getting on his knees and pantomiming performing oral sex on the pair. Marine took this moment to gently remind me that as their male friend, it was my responsibility to act as the protector. I do my best to avoid interacting with males because I feel like there is always a macho game being played and I don't know the rules. Am I supposed to indicate alpha male status? Perhaps with the right body signals and grunting noises I could communicate that the two girls are in my tribe. I pulled the younger sister aside first and made it clear she was dancing with me -- (she's seventeen) -- but, before I could secure Marine as well, from nowhere another man punched the dancer square across the jaw. I pushed Marine back to the perimeter of the circle that instantly forms around a fight. I had seen this kind of circle on the grounds of my placement school several times and for half a second my reflex was to step in and break up the fight. Then I remembered that these weren't two thirteen-year olds on the playground but grown, intoxicated men. I demonstrated my beta-male status by staying back. Surprised by the attack, the man who had been dancing with Marine stood alone in the center. The aggressor hit him again enough knocking him to the ground, then, still not satisfied, delivered a brutal kick to his face. For one cinematic moment, a drunk girl dressed as the devil danced into the center of the ring, her arms above her head, slowly and sensually moving with the music and oblivious to the action. The bouncers arrived and ejected the aggressor from the club while the victim, in a confusing (to me) male gesture, stood on the dance floor with a bruised face and his fist in the air, as though he was the victor. Then he disappeared into the crowed and the night went on as though it never happened. More of Marine's friends arrived and I was the only one in a group of seven who didn't speak French. Fortunately, language was not an issue, as when the music volume is above the 100dB mark, communication is not possible. I thought that in Europe I would escape music from the likes of Britney Spears and Shania Twain, but alas, it is not so. Normally I abhor their music, but in a club, when I have to dance, I'm actually glad to have them around. I look stupid and the music is stupid but these two things cancel out. The DJ bizarrely mixed the inane pop songs with techno music, the genera I welcome in a club. With techno, I feel cool -- it isn't true of course, but the feeling is nice nonetheless. When the Hackers sound track comes on, the alcohol and my imagination get the better of me: I am The One. Agent Smith walks through the door, saying ``Mister Grey'' and I dodge his bullets with casual accuracy in a slow-motion world, all the while emptying a clip in his direction as the techno blasts, the strobe lights flash, and all are impressed. More agents arrive and the fighting gets too tight even for me, I leap to the second floor balcony and exit through the window, continuing our battle across the rooftops of Chinatown. At least, this is what goes on in my head when back in reality I bounce back and forth, sightly out of sync with the music. |
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Leave a comment, send an email or join my mailing list. Copyright © 2004 Wellington Grey  This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 2.5 License. |
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