My colleagues told me they were hitting this nightclub after work as a new way to relieve stress. I was skeptical at first. A nightclub, on a work night? At this age? But after checking out some reviews, I got more and more convinced that it would be fine.
WELCOME TO THE MIDNIGHT ZONE, WHERE YOU PLAY AS HARD AS YOU WORK
GROUND RULES BEFORE HAVING SOME FUN
The entry sign made me raise an eyebrow. Rule 6? Seriously? Did my colleagues think I was the type to surely enjoy a nightclub? Following after them, I shrugged the chills off, hoping to reminisce about my young, wild past.
As I entered the club, any suspicion I had instantly melted off my mind. The music blared as gorgeous women and flamboyant men sat and danced around. I made my way over to the bar, hoping not to stand out too much, being a dumpy old man in a sea of glorious young adults, and ordered myself a mojito.
I wasn’t sure if it was the alcohol beginning to hit, but I felt warmer and warmer. No matter how loud and hyper the club is, I looked over the crowd with a strange sense of fondness, like an old friend I’d bumped into on the street. My worries faded with every sip of the cocktail.
And suddenly, a rush of adrenaline flowed into me out of absolutely fucking nowhere. It’s as if a gallon of ice-cold water was injected into my blood. I felt like the fiery young man I once was, as I got off the stool and made my way into the crowd..
I have no idea how I ended up back home, but I did. And from that day on, I constantly did shit that I never thought I would do. I got myself a convertible. I hit up a coke dealer because I just wanted to feel young again. Eventually, I felt completely disconnected from myself, like there was somehow a drug addict, alcoholic, but a young and fresh little kid inside of me.
Feeling young meant I wasn’t scared of anything. I often caught myself in the police station. Hitting up young women walking alone. Spending more and more cash just to go to the nearest brothel.
Deep down, I knew this wasn’t me at all. But I couldn’t stop having fun. It’s as if the spirit that possessed me in the nightclub somehow still lives inside of me. People I once called my best, most loyal friends often looked down on me with disdain. They saw me flaunting luxury brands. They saw my bleach-blonde hair. And every single one of those bastards shook their heads with the same fucking phrase.
“When will you grow up?”
Fucking old shits don’t know what having real fun feels like. Every day I step out of my rotting apartment to blow my cash and feel fun. I stay out as long as possible like a teenage boy with no curfew so that I can show those around me what a successful old man looks like.
..
I sometimes feel like I’ve aged more than I ever could.
There’s a parasite growing inside of my brain that won’t die.
I don’t want to have fun anymore and I’d rather go back to the industrial, slave-like life I used to stew away in. The funny thing is I never thought I’d catch myself saying that. All those empty bottles of absinthe in the trash. All the loan sharks biting at my ass to pay them back. All the young little women I’ve corrupted with their stoned asses barely even noticing. But I’m destined to have all the fucking fun I can before I drop dead. I can’t let them catch me sighing, even for a minute.
The Midnight Zone has some very observant staff.