i am not my liver
never have i ever been clubbing. never have i ever downloaded bumblebff. never have i ever agreed to spend halloween with a stranger. tonight all three fingers go down.
i try to envision a club. lights? probably. music? top 40s, its a latin club so lots of spanish. people? drunk, hot, stupid. people who know how to dance. people who don't have to think about knowing how to dance. i imagine there is no coat check. that these perfect stupid people who know how to dance dont need jackets or boots or bags. vodka jackets are in style at the club of my naïve imagination.
among these perfect, dancing people, i am jacketed, heeled, and in makeup befitting a 12 year old who just got her first issue of vogue teen. among these perfect, stupid, dancing people i stumble and stagger and reach and move, perhaps with them in color and myself in black and white.
my first step toward becoming stupid hot and dancing is leaving my glasses at home. they ruin the outfit. what do i need to see?
i sat outside the club for 40 minutes. its maybe 3 degrees, my feet hurt, and i just passed a packed small bar with a live MCR coverband. i want to turn around.
my new friend approaches the club, also jacketed. i feel relieved. she says she thought i was a catfish. to tell you the truth, i say, i thought i was a catfish.
we go inside. the bouncer doesnt make small talk. i make a comment to her about it and she looks at me like im kinda dumb. the club is downstairs. the coat check only takes cash because of course they do. she covers me. its 10:40pm and the dance floor is empty aside from a twink dressed like a roman emperor surrounded by 5 incredibly attractive scantily clad women.
may i be reincarnated as a twink during my next trip through samsara.
my friend grabs my hand and drags me to the bar. "what do you want" "i want the chocolate martini" two shots of tequila were ordered. it goes down like water. ive never had tequila before. like water. theres a lime and i dont know what to do with it. she sucks on it after. theres a smooth burn down my throat but i dont really feel it.
she grabs my hand and drags me to the dance floor. we dance. i say i cant dance and we dance. she can dance. some fat tall guy decides he wants to dance. i freeze. she pulls me away. she decides she needs another. more tequila. two shots of tequila. its like water. i think of my friend who swore of tequila after two shots made her vomit. i think ill tell her. it's just like water.
i feel drunk but in control. im on the dance floor and im moving but im really watching. im feeling. i look at her sometimes but not too much. shes looking at me. the room is bright then dark. strobe to disorient. the floor is concrete, not yet filthy, and theres a thick concrete beam in the middle of the floor. i move my feet, two step, four step, left, right. i do the same 3 things with my hands. im trying not to think about it. im trying to make myself one with the room.
i cant help but recall the 8th grade dance. flashing lights, concrete floor, believe it or not roughly the same music. but familiar faces and no booze. i think thats the only difference that matters. i think of myself awkwardly shuffling against my date, moving myself to the music with my friends, swaying awkwardly, uncertain when some criteria like music or people or noise is off.
i am the room. she grabs me and dances with me. stupid hot sexy dancers dont have pockets, they hold their phones all night. she can't grab my right hand thanks to phone so i shove it in my arm pit, we shuffle, i smile, she smiles, we move to the music. she leads but i can't tell if im following. she twirls me and i twirl, i twirl her and she almost falls.
i am the room. two shots. and i thought i was a lightweight.
i set her upright and keep dancing. facing her but separate. i dont think she liked my body language, looking back on it. she turns arounds and grinds on me, i have no idea what to do so i hold her, she stops and goes back to dancing.
they're playing pitbull. they're playing shakira. they're playing tokyo drift. i am the room.
we drift through the room, being pushed and pulled as the dance pit fills. more men. this is a gay club, i think. that doesn't stop them. most of the drifting is trying to avoid them. like werewolves on a full moon halloween has brought them out, i think. i dont freeze anymore, i dont make eye contact.
i think back to white girl dancing. when pitbull tells me to put my hands in the air i do. and i bring them back down, patting the air, like jlo on just dance.
they play rihanna. where have you been. i know this one. just dance. muscle memory overtakes me. i do a space appropriate version. the dj stops it midway through. my feet hurt but i am the room.
in the real club there are tables. booths tucked away in corners and high tops surrounding the dancing pit. watching the dancers. all reserved on the face of it, but when my friend notices my feet hurt she doesn't seem to mind that when she brings me over to one and we sit down. we dont say much.
somehow, this is fine. the lights are fine, the music is fine, the people are fine. i am the room. the vibe is palpable, though not necessarily pleasing to the sober, and humid through my brain. through my eyes, ears, nose, mouth. like a thin wash of color.
three tequila shots.
she goes to take a picture. i hit a flinch. on instinct, i run through my options, cost. i run through my why and how and when and what. the camera goes on and i see myself and in an instant the calculation has completed. i tilt my head and look at the camera. i smile at her command.
i am the room.
we keep dancing, people keep pouring in, a performance is called. a drag queen emerges from the crowd. her heels are higher than mine. i immediately feel sorry for her. her and her two male scantily clad henchmen dance and prance around the circle. lady gaga style. tippers come to the center and she goes to them, grinding and show kissing before sending them off.
she does a show to bad romance. i am 7 years old. below light pine washed stairs, hands on my keyboard and eyes on the youtube search bar. "bad romance". i watch lady gaga move. dance. my moms upset. i dont get it. i watch it in black and white and then color.
i am the room.
another drag queen emerges from the crowd, this one the typical club hostess. she does a routine to britney spears. both talented, both showy, both quoted dolly parton.
the queens finish and the crowd returns to the center. it is full. im pulled to the bar by my friend who seems to have enjoyed the show.
4 tequila shots.
this one burns. i dont know what changed. maybe a different kind of tequila. im not asking questions. i try sucking on the lemon. it helps. it feels like i just vomitted in reverse.
this time i pull my friend to the floor. its so crowded theres hardly space. she grinds on me this time and this time i pretend that i know what to do. in schrodingers club i know exactly what to do. they play bad bunny. they play more pitbull. they play more spanish music i dont know.she seems less enthusiastic. my feet are starting to really kill.
we go to the washroom. i sit in a stall. i can see the girl in the stall right of me poke her foot into my stall. i think about the contortions required to do that. i wonder if im too drunk.
1:17. i leave. shes taking pictures. calculation complete. drunk woman (butch - i feel fond) who got thrown up on takes the picture with us. she tells me to smile and i do. im counting the fucking minutes.
i am the room. i focus on the music. i focus on the lights. i focus on the people. i am the room
1:39. lets go. coat check easy, walk out easy.
I ask "are you getting an uber" "yeah but not right now" "want to go to local shithole divebar"
shithole bar is as expected - shit. she seems surprised (in spite of the disclaimer) but im not. its 1:55 and several people remind us as we walk in that last call is in 5 - we order before we sit down. tequila and my usual vodka with iced tea.
4 shots of tequila, 1 shot of vodka
"so if you're not a catfish, why do you only have two pictures on your profile?"
they say being drunk makes it impossible to lie. i say you can't lie about what you don't know. in this moment i don't know that my skin used to be covered in disgusting lesions. i don't know that i looked like a 13 and 30 year old man simultaneously for the vast majority of my teenaged life. i don't know all my hipster contrived value statements about how pictures take away from enjoying the moment and how excessive selfies are narcissistic.
"i just don't really think to take them. to be honest all the pictures i've taken are really from the last week" and its the drunken truth. "why didn't you facetime me if you thought i was a catfish? why would you come an hour and a half to see someone you thought was a catfish?"
to be honest, i wasn't expecting her to show up at all. if she didn't, i almost certainly would've left. gone right home. past my chemical romance live cover band, past the vomiting middle aged skittle, past the beautiful dancing alcoholics lining up at various clubs.
she shrugged.
the bar kept fucking with the music. cutting it out, switching songs midway through. the walls are covered in graffiti - phone numbers, signatures, profanity, stickers. i wonder if it was added organically through the years or if they did it on purpose to add to the general festival restroom converted to a bar atmosphere.
i am the festival toilet inspired bar.
she tells me she likes to play games, and hands me her phone to show me her minecraft world. in a gated enclosure, she keeps pigs, cows, sheep. she has 3 dogs she doesn't name.
she laughs at me when i tell her i name my dogs. i tell her i name everything.
she tells me im beautiful and should take more pictures. she tells me about a cowboy bar we should go to next time. she cant remember the name of it. she tells me about how the first time she went clubbing, she went alone and made out with a girl who got married right after. she tells me she feels bad about it and doesn't know if she did the right thing.
i tell her thats kind. i tell her we should try it. i tell her i don't think theres anything she could have done about that.
i try to understand the set of actions you'd take to go from showing up a club alone to making out with a girl on the dance floor. the right night, the right drinks, the right music, the right dance moves. regardless of the sequence, at club schrondinger i am the tall fat guy, repeatedly dancing toward women who run away from me.
she tells me she probably wont remember any of this in the morning. she tells me she downloaded bumble bff because none of her friends ever want to go out. she tells me she wants to go out again. she says theres nothing to do north of toronto. she tells me she downloaded hinge last month and that none of the men are her type.
i tell her i'll remember. i tell her i get it. i tell her im down. i tell her i'll pitch her at hingedeck. she has no idea what that is. i explain its where you go on stage at a bar and pitch the best qualities of your friend to prospective matches. real time matchmaking. she looks at me like i was licking the table.
she asks me why i tried bumblebff. she asks me if i come here often. she asks me, again, why i dont take more pictures. she asks me if im seeing anyone. she asks me why i dont go out more.
i tell my drunken truth, memory transcendent.
3:57am. the bar empties. i can see the waitress glaring at us halfway across the room. they're not even bothering to work the A/V properly at this point - both the TV's and speakers seem to be hooked up to some guys phone, playing shorts. i tell her its time to go and we leave.
the next streetcar is 10 minutes away. the street is lined with little red riding hoods, convicts, and at least 4 dexter morgans. a joker with a harley quinn on his lap tells his friend over the phone that the ttc was bugging man and that he should have come to the function and that his girl was a strung up bitch.
as if summoned, the streetcar arrived 5 minutes early.
she tells me shes glad im not a catfish. she tells me shes tired. the guy next to me tells me he needs to get to broadview station. i tell him to open his phone which is turned on and check his map. he does. he asks me what streetcar he's on. i say 306 - same as the 506 during the day. i tell him hes on his way and that he just needs to get off when his map tells me to. he looks at me, like a child, and says he's really drunk. i tell him to get home safe and that he'll be okay.
she watches me. a girl dressed as a bumble bee watches me. a homeless man watches me. i am the streetcar. she gets off, planning to lyft home. im just 3 stops down. ive taken my shoes off and i can feel the ttc grime under my feet, at this point too drunk to care.
i stagger up to my apartment, debating taking my shoes off before i'm even in the building, neither my ankles nor my brain working. somehow my shoes are back on ,as when i get into the elevator, i stand in front of the open doors fixing my heels, completely oblivious to the person inside waiting for me to get in.
4:47am, drunk but full of energy, i take my heels off for the final fucking time and collapse in my bathroom. i am the room.
