September 6, 2007

• “Can I ask you a question?”
  “Um…. Sure….”
  “Are you practicing for a big event, or is this a long line of invisible people?” I ask, gesturing to the velvet ropes that slither across the sidewalk. I’m a little drunk on moderately priced wine at this point.
  The young black man, shorter than most men in that I only have to look up a few inches to meet his eyes, diverts his attention from the message he’s texting and glances around thinking god knows what about the woman standing in front of him in yoga pants and a pajama top with a shitfaced grin shining on her face.
  “It’s for a private birthday party,” he finally states.
  “Oh….. how come it’s private?”
  “Ummmm…… it’s for my business partner. It doesn’t start until 9, that’s why there’s no one here yet.”
  “Will there be famous people here? Coming in limos and stuff?”
  “Probably…..” At this point, a large black man – SECURITY, his shirt screams in white reflective letters – comes rolling up to the velvet rope that separates me from … I guess his boss. I turn to him and start asking him questions as they come to me. Lots and lots of strange questions that can only come from wine-induced mania. A third man joins us on the sidewalk, and while he stands as tall as the first bouncer, his body is more defined, bulk that is necessary for action rather than intimidation; and I can see if he didn’t have the small smile of amusement on his lips, he would be very intimidating indeed. Before I can turn the headlights of my unblinking curiousity to him, a woman with a Red Bull backpack taps me on the arm and inquires if I’d like a free can.
  “Yes please,” and she hands me one, but even as it leaves her fingers, condensation making the rod sweat in the gleam of lamplight, I ask her “Is there any truth to the ‘scientific’ studies on the internet about Red Bull and alcohol being a lethal combination?”
  She is stunned but bravely stammers “….. I – I uh…. haven’t seen any bad affects from it. There’s really nothing in there that you wouldn’t consume on a regular basis already.”
  “Is there such a thing as Too Much Red Bull? ‘Cuz I drink a lot of it,” I fire at her before she can turn away.
  “It’s just vitamins…. You’re body absorbs as much as it can of it and then you urinate the rest.” I mentally applaud her for not blushing when she says “urinate” in front of a club and its bouncers.
  “So if I drink my own pee, I’d be getting the full dose then? Because I saw it on an episode of CSI…..”
  At this point, she’s nodding her head faintly, backing away, but has the presence of mind to call out “I wouldn’t recommend it!” before she escapes into the crowds.
  I turn back to the slimmer bouncer – dark hair groomed back in a suave wave, mediterranean, or possibly middle eastern, I guess from the faintest accent. I ask him question after question about the club, the building, the event, one hand on the velvet rope between us.
  A black woman stops to my left, nudging the rope with a creamy-skinned knee. I turn to look at her and take in the too-short denim skirt, the out-of-date peasant blouse cinched to emphasize her unpleasantly too-large breasts, hair artificially straightened to a reflective gloss with streaks of blond and red….. maybe it’s a wig…… Such a shame to wrap up natural beauty in cheap packaging, I thought to myself. Her eyes flick to me, then cut away, then flick to me again and I hold her attention with “Hi, will you be performing at the party tonight?”
  “No….”
  “Oh,” and I wait to see if she gets the implied insult. “Are you hoping to g0et in then?”
  She gives a nervous giggle and glances up at the bouncers with false modesty. I imagine her flashing her price and promises in just a few practiced and subtle movements to the men in front of us.
  I smile at her, and I don’t know if she’s ever received a smile without malice before because she raises one side of her face in a twitch – a grimace? a returned smile? – and then hides her features in the shadows of her hair. The handsome bouncer answers more questions then unexpectedly asks if I’d like a tour of the place before the guests started arriving.
  With one step over the velvet ropes, I’m invited into low ceilings and draped walls and wide halls of the club. He tells me where the VIP booths are. He shows me where the dance floors sprawl. He reveals to me that the club was once a porn studio, and the darkness, the humidity, and the pulsing music become a womb of anticipated pleasures.
  As I leave the club, still dizzy and foggy from wine, I catch the curious stares of people dining on the street, loitering on the benches, lined up at the club entrance. What is it? I hear their silent inquiries. What is it about you – dressed in yoga pants and a pajama top, hair mussed from carelessness – that gives you invitation to cross velvet ropes? I shrug as if to respond to everything they ask of me.

  The bottle says take two but I take one.
  This bottle says take one but I take 4.
  That bottle is full because I don’t want that particular pill anymore.
  Slowly I play with the dosages of my medication to try and pull some emotion from the sleepwalking that is my life, and try to hide the alarm I feel when I hear my own forced laugh start edging towards hysteria.

  
  

  • 3:50 pm
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