Easy
going night. It seems like we were getting just enough people to form an
open-weave crowd, which is respectable considering how dead the streets are. Minimal
car traffic, several bicyclists whizz by, and a pair of ooh-lah-lay young
ladies hobble past on their stiletto heels and wearing sausage-casing minis. I say hello to the pair but I’m considered nothing more than building
ornamentation—a gargoyle—and my greeting probably registers as the wind
burping. I guess when they get to their destination club they must just stand
somewhere on display—like fly paper, hoping to catch the right guys. Back at
the door, I’m trying to fill it so I let some in at
two-for-the-price-of-one and others for free. A fun couple in their late
thirties or early forties greets me at the door. The woman says, “I suppose
you wanna see our IDs?” I say, “Damn skippy I do, although I’ve seen so many
fakes tonight. Take that gray-hair guy at the bar. I know he’s under age but
his obvious amateur-hour driver’s license claims he’s 67—what a scammer.” Since
her birthday was yesterday, I only collect for him. While the night wears on,
the band pulls out songs they haven’t played for awhile. I especially
enjoy their version of Cannonball Adderley’s Jive Samba. As the end comes
near, I notice four different couples each cocooned in worlds of their
making. If it wasn’t so authentically sweet, I would have puked.
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