Taking care of the city

It’s Sunday evening, and I’m sitting here by my window waiting for the left-overs from the white wine to cool off. Last night was legendary. Nothing special happened, but a chain of events and the totality added up to one long sought-after Saturday night.

It started in the middle of the day.
As usual, I was going to find my favourite spot, buy a cup of coffee and maybe read or write something. I got to the café and was let in early. All the girls there know me, they don’t know my name, but they know my trade. I’m often left alone to watch over the place when they run out to get the newspaper and stuff.
They’ve got a new Swedish girl working every now and then. She’s really cute, and sexy too. I like the way the news slowly dawned to her that I was a steadfast regular. How did I know where the ashtrays are kept? Why, I know a lot of stuff about this place.
It wasn’t her working yesterday though, I just felt like sharing that with the internets, just in case we end up getting married and move down to a cottage in Southern France, practicing on making babies. Then I’ll point her to this post, all romantic and stuff, and she’ll be all soft.

My head didn’t work.
I’d worked till midnight Thursday and four hours overtime Friday, so my rythm was kind of unsynchronized. I have plenty of habits, and I like them. They most often work. Writing is not a habit, though, that’s something else. But I have a dreadful habit of not writing. It happens quite often that I start writing half a minute after I’ve decided to give it up.
Didn’t do the trick this time. So I headed straight for the nearest liquor shop and bought myself a bottle of white and a 75cl bottle of cognac to replace the one in my bookshelf that somehow had been mysteriously emptied.
I got a text-message from a friend of mine saying that he’d be going out later. Cool. I arranged myself at home, doing my tête-à-tête vorspiel with Tom Waits, and tried to find the magical border that is rumoured to exist somewhere between completely wasted and devotionally sober. It was hard. I kept moving back and forth my crammy room so that my body wouldn’t go tired on me. I had some water and even a cup of coffee along the cheap wine. It didn’t matter, it was just a starter before some serious alcohol consumption to come.

At the time I decided to get out of there, I was certain that I had managed to balance on the magical border. My balance quickly disputed my dissertation and physically forced me to the realization that the powers of gravity are not susceptible to mind control after all.
I got down to "Friends", an expensive place with leather furniture, where the bartender actually tried to cut me 100 NOK short in the change. His side-kick, bartenders always have a sympathetic side-kick hanging around the bar, and they detest everything around them together, even said He’s not going to fall for that, referring to me.
I was in a very good mood, so I just agreed. I wouldn’t.
Gave me a free cup of coffee later on.

In came the call and I hurried towards Bar B. It’s not the actual name, so you don’t want to look it up if you come to Oslo. I have a history at this place. I even used to be on the VIP list. I took all the advantage I could from that, even picked up some girls eager to get in, but somewhere along the road things turned somewhat sour between me, my regular company and the couple running the place.
It was emotional.
But now, since my friend was going there, I had to, unless I wanted to spend even more money at strip joints. (Which I probably will anyway, but all in good time.) So I stood in line there for about 20 minutes and then I paid the 50 NOK entrance fee, which hurt my pride more than my pockets. For they were jingling.

This place is so packed nowadays that I wonder why someone haven’t shut it down. I bet there’s three times more people in there than what that small fire exit on the back could ever handle. If you look in the corners of the stalls, you’ll probably find someone who’s been there for weeks on a row, unable to get out of there. It’s crammed. I spilled half my beer on the dancefloor, which was reserved for people standing right up and down, willing themselves to believe they were dancing and having a good time.
Not like the good old days, when you knew the names of people hanging there. It was the fat guy raving impotently poetically about the beer, the guy with the hat who sold weed, there was the American who everyone suspected was gay, the celebrity photographer and his girls, the lunatic naked model and then there was us. Me and me two drooges, at the reserved corner table.

I felt bad about what had happened, even though I wasn’t sure what it was or why the owners were so mad at me, so I pulled out my notepad and pen and wrote a short I’m sorry note from the bottom of my heart. Then I emptied the beer, made sure they got the note and disappeared through the crowd – like the cool guys always do in the movies.
By chance I met my friend and his girl outside.
He was in a tired state, and his girlfriend had her period and a head ache.
I wasn’t gonna let this ruin my evening, though, so I headed for the Boheme to find some easy girls into rock music.

It definitely was my night, because who did I meet at the entrance? These two girls I know, but rarely do anything but drink with. Good people. One of them is studying Japanese, can make really funny faces and has a license to mix drinks. The other I don’t know the name of, but I’ve met her several times, and I can tell her from the furniture.
I told them about finding easy girls, they were mildly offended, until I bought them both a rose from an old gipsy woman thanking God for meeting such a heart-warming and generous lad like me. Soon I had a beer and excellent rock music from the good ol’ days booming through my bones.

There was a 3rd girl in the party, one I had not met before, who had the face of an angel and the body of a stripper. She was perfect. She smiled in a very sensual way. I really like that smile.
After two beers there, she was patting my arm as if I was a moron. I wasn’t sure whether she was trying to tell me I was a moron, since she kept saying that girls like intelligent, kind men like me. Would you like to dance, then? I had to try to find out where she was aiming.
Yes, maybe, she replied.
I ducked out going for the bathroom. I was going to give her the time of her life on that dance floor. Be it a good or a bad memory, since I sure as hell can’t dance. Girls appreciate some effort, though, as long as you keep from decapitating innocent bystanders.

I got back and they were on their way home.
I was in a jam.
There was three of them, one of her, and one of me.
I needed a beer… and they were gone.
The agony.
What the heck, if that wasn’t love at first sight, I would have to get my eyes checked. Isn’t that girl smiling at me? I did my best until closing time. They only played really hard rock about that time, and the old punker in me came to life. You can’t not head bang to Smells like teen spirit. You can’t dance to it either.

A happy chap I was, though. I maintained that the night was still young, the outlook good, and my cashflow steady. I waltzed homewards instinctively, knowing that some of the hard core clubs on the East side would stretch their interpretations of opening hours as far as they could.
A Nigerian prostitute stopped me. I will suck you dick and love you long-long time.
I only smiled at her. The valiant knight would strike again!
– And how much is that?
– Five houndred.
– Five houndred for the remainder of the night?
She nodded.
– Man. That’s like a third of last year’s price!
It is very true. Nigerian prostitutes have been flooding the market lately, pushing away Easter European branches to other areas and stuff. Some of you will be rubbing your chin now thinking how I know so much about this. And you will wonder: Is he a customer?
Think again. It comes with the job. We have the most popular reports on prostitution and trafficking in all of Norway. I pick up a lot of interesting information.
– Five houndred?
– Five houndred.
– All right, come here.
I took her to a ATM and pulled out a five houndred crowner bill. I walked over to her. She was asking whether I would get the cab. Shit. That’s low. Five houndred for a night and you’re not even sure he pays the cab. She should’ve had a better pimp. Or a better trade.
I handed her the five houndred.
– Now you go home and you get some sleep

I haven’t seen anyone so happy for a long time. I swear I even saw a tear as she said God bless you with emphasis on all words. She jumped up and down. Girls do that when they’re excited. It’s just something in their heads that go click! you are excited. Initiate jump up and down sequence. I really love to be the cause of that.

I got down to the river but didn’t see any dealers. I crouched over the railing and looked into the pitch black water, wondering whether or not to wait for it, or get home. The bars were all closed by now. Oh, fuck it. I might as well go home. I still have some white wine and some cognac.
And then there’s tomorrow.. There’s always another one comin’.

4 thoughts on “Taking care of the city

  1. Sigg3, your a nice guy man.

    Sucks that you lost those girls. That musta ruined your night. Oh well, hope you have good luck with someone soon.

  2. Sentimental? I’s all love, man.

    IBloon, it did’t ruin my evening, I went on to two other girls, but it set me back about an hour.
    And she was damn fine, so I hope to see her again.
    ..the first one that is. The 2nd one was brilliant, loved to dance and she was making out with another chick when I arrived. The problem was that half the bar was going for her, so I did’t stand a chance. Around that time everyone else seem dark and tall, and ‘m the only little, blond feller around, so nobody notices:)

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