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October 25, 2007

week 3

We had to write a character walking into the Graduate and ordering a drink and the scene stops when the character gets the drink.  It was to use the style we were given in class. 

The girl entered the bar through the peach coloured doors with clashing yellow handles. It was called the Graduate. Inside was not dim, like the bars seen on TV full of old men or thugs, yet not bright either. She was wearing black boots, and black tights that were almost see through but not quite and had the sheen slick fabrics have. Her jean skirt was ragged on the bottom though stylishly so, at least she thought so. Style was important and skirts with cut up bottoms were in style, not that her mother would understand since she would say it’s not stylish but trashy. Adults never understood her, and she was lucky if her so called friends even did. Her black coat was unbuttoned to reveal the dark-blue, tight-fitting shirt she wore underneath. She had worn it purposely to show that she was no kid, and so she did belong there. She could handle a glass of beer. Though if you were going to get technical she technically wasn’t allowed to drink yet, since she was not eighteen but a mere seventeen years, eleven months, and two days old. Adults were so picky about things such as age and she doubted twenty nine days would make a difference in how her body processed alcohol or how she felt when drinking. Rules were so over-glorified.

   Music filled her ears, almost to the point of overflowing her earphones but not, so she could properly drown out the world with My Chemical Romance’s latest emo, upbeat, drum-heavy, song without actually disturbing anyone with it, a careful balance of volume control she had mastered thanks to year of ignoring everything her parents shrilled and squawked at her, except when she needed money of course, then the answer was actually important.

   Her eyes roamed the crowded room, full of not modern plastic tables but wooden ones that fit the bar feel. The tables themselves were used by many university students opening their mouths to talk to friends or drink more yellow-brown beer. She could only hear the guitar riffs and hammering drums of her music so she felt removed from the busy, yet relaxed bar scene. She however was not relaxed. She was under age and just hoped they didn’t ask for ID. There was no reason they should since she looked like any other university student, and even had a bigger bust than most of the girls, she had noticed with a smirk. And when she was with her boyfriend (now ex) at this bar she had never been asked for ID. He was three years older than her so he was legal and with her looks and the fact she was with him no one questioned if she was legal too.

   She caught the eye of a skinny guy with glasses who had glanced at her as she walked by. He had a geek aura that wasn’t just there, but radiated off him like heat waves off the blacktop in summer. As if she’d ever go with him, even if she was desperate, and she wasn’t, not really, not enough to do anything with that nerd. She hoped she didn’t have an ‘I’m under eighteen’ feeling coming off her. Then she wouldn’t get her drink and would get thrown out. That would be horrible. She would not just turn red but melt from the self-confidence-evaporating heat of embarrassment. She rearranged her shirt as she glanced around, eyes darting rapidly. She tugged at the hem of her skirt. It wasn’t even new, but old and boring she now thought. Her skirt was so lame, it was a year old and her mom had only given her a hundred pounds to go back to school shopping, so she had splurged on her cool, new, black, calf-high boots and not had enough left over to buy any new skirts. When she had asked for more money her mom had told her no, she already had perfectly good clothes. Obviously, her uncaring mother did not understand the importance of having this year’s styles.

   Walking past the foosball table she saw a guy sitting on one of the couches in that corner who was not just cute but gorgeous. She quickly turned away to not seem like an awkward gawking teenager. She had to act like a cool university student, not an underage girl.

   She knew that ordering a drink was no big deal, but a simple request, yet she felt her heart beat a bit faster and herself grow warm. With a motion which she thought was laid-back and cool, but was somewhat hurried, she pushed back her light brown hair, pulled out her earbuds, stuffed them into her coat pocket and walked to the wooden counter with determination. Standing there she decided not to order the sweet fruity sort of drink she usually got, but a Fosters to look like she drank all the time and knew what she was doing. It was a bit of a wait.

   “What will you have?” the bartender asked in a voice that wasn’t kind but polite.

  “A Fosters” she said, glancing at the triangular, metal, taps under circular labels.

   Grabbing a glass the man put it under the tap to fill her drink. The alcohol didn’t gush out but streamed slowly from the nozzle. She wished it would hurry up so she could pay and be done with this before she got caught.

   “Two pounds ten,” the man said, the drink nearly full, but not quite.

   She took the money from her purse and gave it to the bartender, who rang the purchase up at the till to the side. Then he topped off her drink and set it on the counter in front of her with the hard thunk sound of glass on wood.       


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