A Year in Fife Park by Quinn Wilde Page B

Mart asked.
    ‘Reasonable request,’ I said. ‘What’s on tonight, anyway?’
    As usual, this was a stupid question to ask in St. Andrews. [By the third year, we would often ask ‘What’s on… in Dundee?’]
    ‘I think they’re having a Cheesy night at the Bop,’ Craig said, without much enthusiasm.
    ‘Great,’ Mart sighed. ‘How will we tell?’
    The Bop, like most events, was in decline in our second year. In the first year, people had made an effort with the events. There had been bands and comedians that we had heard of, and they had even hosted foam parties some nights. [Mart had cracked his chin open while sliding around one night, and then there were no more foam parties.] It was an euphoric but short lived phase of our lives although, to be honest, the foam parties were pretty rank. At the height of the foaming we were looking at about a half an inch coverage of wet suds, which dissolved into a slippery mess less than thirty seconds after they turned off the foam sprayers. Luckily, we weren’t measuring fun by volume of foam.
    The important thing about those days wasn’t that they were particularly good; it was that people were willing to throw themselves around in filthy wet shite until injuries took them out of the game. By our second year, everything was just a little bit more reserved, and everyone had just a little bit less enthusiasm. The Bop itself had devolved into three hours of bad music with three people dancing to it. We went every week.
    ‘Guys, are we really going to do the Bop again?’
    ‘What else?’
    ‘Fuck’s sake,’ Mart said. ‘St. Andrews is just so fucking lame .’
    Craig caught my eye.
    ‘The eight-fifteen from Downersville is a little early into the station tonight,’ I said, nodding at Mart.
    ‘We should get him over to the union before he starts challenging authority,’ Craig agreed.

    We got into the Union without too much trouble. Mart got IDed, and refused to show his student card until the bouncer had let Mart identify him . Fortunately the guy on the door was new, and thought this was a gag.
    ‘You’re going to have fun, here,’ Craig told him, as he let us pass.
    ‘We’re just a bunch of loveable jokers,’ I said, giving him a thumbs up.
    ‘You know what’s a joke?’ Mart asked. Craig hurried him through the door before he could finish. ‘The fucking service around here,’ Mart said triumphantly, to the foyer. I glanced back at the doorman, but he was onto the next bunch of customers.
    ‘Jesus,’ Craig said. ‘He’s all yours, I’m going for a slash.’
    The queue for the Bop was all around the main doors, and folded back on itself till it was almost into the main bar. It’s always fucking all or nothing.
    ‘Better get in the queue,’ I said.
    I saw Ella towards the front of the queue, and waved.  She waved back.
    ‘I’m going to ask her out,’ I said to Mart.
    ‘Go for it,’ he said.
    ‘Everybody knows you’re into her,’ Lance said. ‘All her friends, too.’
    ‘Ah, good,’ I said. No chance for a quiet, private moment of failure then. I took a deep breath. The queue was good for another half hour at least. Plenty of time to steel myself.
    I think I asked Ella out three or four times, in second year. I don’t know, it didn’t seem nearly as pathetic and drippy in person. There was always a good reason to have another shot, or at least it seemed like that. Anyway, I’m a firm believer that we should measure ourselves by our progress and, as such, I consider my numerous and abject failures with Ella as amounting to a kind of success.
    For example, I certainly didn’t follow her around like a drooling puppy, and I credit myself with having reached a stage of emotional development where this was an obvious decision. I was also able to conduct a conversation of any required length with Ella.
    This was more down to her than to me. Ella was always happy to chat, even if I did sometimes make a fool of myself. It was a while before