If you live in Toronto and have friends, you’ve probably been to the Dance Cave at some point. Sure, it might have been ten years ago when it was age-appropriate for you, but no matter.
Given the above is true, you’ll know who I mean when I reference the guy in pajamas at Dance Cave. He wears the same pair, every single night. I’ve been there in the winter, the summer, early, late, Friday’s, and Saturdays, and this dude is there, without fail.
It’s reassuring. It’s a reminder that although things change, and you may no longer enter with the same friends, or leave with the same hook-up, there’s always that one constant in the universe that let’s you know it’s going to be okay. You’re still the same person, and the world is safe.
Until the day you see the Pajama Man in normal clothes, bringing his pajamas behind the DJ booth to change.
All of a sudden, your walls start to crumble. You second guess why you’re even there. You become more aware that they just played Spice Girls, Backstreet Boys, Shout, and I Will Survive right in a row, and how shitty that is. You feel the floor shake beneath you and think, Hey, that’s probably not up to code. You look at the water on the edge of the bar and wonder, Why has no one removed those, they’re super easy to roofie. You look at the weird couple who aren’t actually dancing, just jumping, and you’re all, Hey, that’s probably a good workout. You see the couple making out and ponder if they’ve been HIV-tested and have shared this information with their new partner.
In short, you feel old. Old, and alone, and like nothing is ever sacred anymore. Pajama Man – you have let me down.
I may be getting older, but I’ll be damned if I stop using my student ID to get into places for free
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