We were hot 21-year-olds. My boyfriend and I were in college. No curfew. We could go to night clubs.
We oozed hotness.
It was Halloween night. A party at a club. We were SO there.
The doors opened at 7:30 p.m. So, yeah, we were there on time.
Apparently, the cool peeps arrive at 10:00 p.m. or later. Even on a Tuesday.
Have you ever been to a club early? The DJ hadn’t yet arrived. When crowds of people don’t fill the dance floor, you notice the dinginess. And how echo-y it is.
At least we were set costume-wise.
My boyfriend was Frankenstein. He was tall. His face and neck and arms were painted green. Hair died black and gelled just so. A fake bolt went through his neck. His too-short blazer purchased at Goodwill was perfectly Frankenstein.
I was the Wicked Witch of the West from The Wizard of Oz. Black dress and hat. My face and neck and arms were painted green. Fake warts on my nose. Pointy hat. The accent? I had it down, my little pretty.
We were Team Green.
A couple of drinks. Chit chat.
A couple of hours later, the slutty nurses started to arrive. Along with the Playboy bunnies. And French maids in boustiers. Pirates wearing patches and little else.
We were clearly overdressed.
Too green, I guess.
New to the club scene.
Oh and it took like three showers to scrub the green out of our skin.