To our surprise the place was packed, and we made our best efforts to appear slightly optimistic in the midst of the putrid aroma of B.O. and beer. The warmth is what kept us in; it was below freezing that night and standing outside with the sea of cancer inhalers seemed unappealing.
Soon, we pushed back the unfamiliar faces and made our way towards the stage. Strange: the familiar DJ table was blocked by three performers. We were listening to a live version a household rap, a version that was all to familiar of my high school lunch room. However, Cody, Elizabeth, Rosemary and I made our best attempts to cut the lyrics and move to the beat. This failed miserably. But hope was near; Wolf-e-Wolf was about to play and the unwelcomed crowd began to filter away. Finally a beat we could all recognize, it was like eating chocolate cake after fasting for three months.
But this did not solve our disappointment. Our feet were confined, suffocated by overweight dusch bags who could hardly pick up their feet. People didn't come that night to dance, they came to let their bodies build more fat for the cold winter ahead. It was ridiculous. How can you dance when people all around you are stationed like a brink house, barely swaying side to side.
The only thing that was successful about the night was my outfit.