September 15, 2002

by Rob C.

Tonight Sara, Chris and I decide to experience a few downtown Halifax bars for some drinking. We're directed by two friendly Haligonians (how do you get Haligonian out of Halifax?) to the Economy Shoe Shop - a nook and crannied, multi-levelled pub and eatery housing a large fake tree in its center, thus enhancing its faux, old outdoor Euro-market feel. We got drunk fast on 2 rounds of Jagermeister, gin and tonics and beer. Sara proceeds to school Chris and I on the insidious capitalism of the music industry - a kinda, how-to-stay-tough-and-survive lesson. She knows her stuff that Sara. Two more rounds of 'Jag', gin and beers and our conversation takes a sharp left turn towards the topic of people's need for idolatry, followed by our individual musings on the 'after-life'. Yep. . .alchohol. Sara seems to base her belief system on some acid-tripped 1960's left-over with a doctorate in metaphysics, (that she read about in Popular Science magazine), who postulates that an infinite number of Saras are living in an infinite number of universes all at the same freakin' time! Uh huh... In retrospect, I suppose slipping some vitamin "A" in her morning juice yesterday, you know, for old time's sake, was not a good idea.

An attractive blonde waitress informs us that the Economy Shoe Shop is closing and that the Casino would still be open for the business of drinking. I try to seduce her into joining us as our own personal Haligonian tour guide. She politely shuts me down even in the face of such irresistable charm and persistance. Quite frankly I am stunned. Fortunately my ego's used to it. We proceed to stumble our way down to the waterfront and Casino "Booze", sans waitress. Swaying down long glass walkways, carpeted corridors, past deserted hotel lobby posts, locked conference rooms (we check),indoor swimming pools (Sara's eyes light up), escalators and janitors- we eventually reach the entrance to the Casino.

Sara and Chris decide now they would rather try to find a hotel guest wandering the corridors who, they assume, would gladly give up their room card to them so they could go for a little frolick in the indoor swimming pool. Drunk people are dumb.

I convince them to at least have one drink in the casino, THEN try and break into the pool. "Yeah, good idea Rob!" Sara exclaims. Bargaining with drunks is easy, especially if you're drunk yourself. Once seated comfortably in the lounge with our beers and whiskey in front of us, I realize that Sara's inebriated determination for swimming will not subside. She's unflinchingly stubborn you see. To my utter disbelief she proceeds to stumble around the lounge asking drunk men for their room keys for her pool mission. Horror!

"What the fuck is she doing, Carlson?"

"Shut up and drink!", he slurs.

"Christ, they're gonna think she's good to go", I think to myself.

Eventually she comes back to sit down, no room key in hand. Weird, Halifaxians are so ungiving. Man, I'm pissed. Time to swim. And here's where it gets good kids. Once out of the Casino, we ask, what appears to be hotel security, if he could assist us in our mission- he suggests that the only possibility is to smash the glass door open. Fuck yeah! How punk is that? Sara waits for the anarchist security gaurd to leave, then winds up to kick the door in. Chris, sensing her alchohol-fueled aggression, swoops down to block her foot, trips himself up on some completely flat carpet and falls square into the path of Sara's boot, whose heel then rifles into Chris' mouth - agape in self-disbelief at how gimped his blocking attempt is. Chris' head cocks back violently, smashes through the glass of the door then leads his limp body in a backwards somersault over shards of broken glass, finding rest in the luke-warm bleach water of the pool. I'm fuckin freakin! This is so cool, cuz in my near passing-out drunk state I'm watching all this in slow motion hearing Chris say "Noooooo", the moment he realises he's going to get clocked, like his voice has been pitch shifted down a couple octaves with his lips pursed as if ready to french-kiss a horse. Sara, rejoicing at her martial arts prowess, excitedly (and unfortunately) dives into the shallow end after Chris, hits her head on the bottom of the pool knocking herself unconscious.

I quickly pluck Sara (5'2", 100lbs) out of the water with one arm and place her in the appropriate 3/4 prone, first aid position on the deck and am about to check on Carlson, who is massaging his bloody mouth, laughing at himself, when all of the sudden two big, burly police officers enter through the shattered glass and step on deck. Shit!

Just then, Sara coughs and sputters to life, her eyes light up and she exclaims, "Yay, I'm finally going to be arrested by two burly police officers!" (apparently some kind of fantasy of hers). Wierd. As providence would have it both cops slip and fall backwards on the little glass shards when they make moves toward us. Fortunately Chris and I are at the rear exit doors before they even hit the ground. We look back, fully expecting to see Sara in line behind us but instead she's wobbling at the edge of the pool staring at the fallen cops on the other side. Her eyes are glazed over as if in some acid trance, she mutters some gibberish about remembering being a little girl, longing for being swept up by two large police officers who wisk her away to jail.

"Clearly she's overcome by some twisted, alchoholic fantasy!", I exclaim to Chris.

He runs back to her and flings her over his shoulders just as the cops begin rounding the pool in order to cut us off. We blast out the exit, locking it behind us, make our way out of the Casino and into a conviniently waiting taxi that wisks us unnoticed back to our hotel.

-Rob Chursinoff

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