The large bouncer is scouring the line. He’s nice, with a few gold crowns and big smile. “What’s up fellas. Nice beads. You gotta get in line.” He informs us. “Alright, I gotta listen to this guy, he’s scary…” “Hey man,” he chuckles, “No reason to be scared o’ me.” Pointing at the ladies, impeccable with their dark jackets, tight jeans, and hair: perma-wet sheen dark curls, $creaming out to the world – Look at me! “Those is who you gotta watch out for.”
Bouncers get paid to get yelled at. They prevent rowdy drunks from starting fights and from threatening seductive patrons and bartenders. In the face of chaos, they are rule of law, giving the appearance of order and authority at the club, so that utter anarchy doesn’t ensue. Be nice to your bouncers, listen to them, and joke with them; they have to be outside all night and don’t care if you get in or not. The fate of your evening lies in their hands, so if you’re nice they may let you in without waiting.
An inebriated bro, his frosted-tipped hair fully spiked and wearing a long-sleeved graphic shirt, starts yelling at the bouncers. He’s been kicked out. “Man, that’s cowsh-t. I’m not that drank.” He’s pointing, never good. “All my friends are inside.” The bouncer with gold teeth starts yelling, “You! You’re outta here!” Arms extended, the mountain of a man is walking towards him. His friends are now dragging him away, pulling the drunk white kid away from his goal.
We step to the front of the line now, away from the fray, behind a group of white kids with nore printed tees and spiky hair who had also jumped in line. The bouncers step up, and tell the kids they can’t get in; they have to wait in the long line. I turn, and the line slithers for at least a quarter of a mile, crowds of people – more guys in printed tees and females in pea-coats and short black dresses.
The line jumpers – their faces speak volumes. With utter despair and sadness seen in turned lips and broken eyes, they forfeit their party-attempt. Again, paranoia, that it’s never going to happen, sneaks in…Defeated, I turn back around to face Big J and bemoan, “J, man, let’s get out of here and get some cigs, we’re never getting in...” However, Big J is no longer next to me or listening; he’s approaching the line keepers with open arms and they are frisking him, preparing him for admission into da club.
I step behind him quickly, smiling. The line kings smile back, nodding, giving that quiet sense of embrace, the greatest acknowledgment one person can give to another: acceptance – “I like the beads” an intimidating bouncer with a shaved head admits, “Thanks, I brought them up from Mardi Gras just for you.” “Nice!” He approves. We made it to the party.
Big J arrives to pay and says he’s on “Mikey W’s list”, or “Mikey-P, that’s what they said outside.” I get up and say, “I’m on Mikey P, W or whatever he goes by these days.” The cashier, American by birth, likely European by descent, smiles at the irony - a male taking the name of his female counterpart.
On ground level, there is the Bamboo Deck, a coat-check, and side club that is generally empty but is now bustling with other party-goers in fanciful clothing, shiny colors, sequins, and inferior Mardi Gras beads.
Night at the Roxxy is
Night at the Roxbury on steroids and ecstasy.
We can feel thumping above, like a giant heart waiting to
take it in.
There are people walking down, smiling and nodding at our appearance.
At the top of stairs an orgy of sound awaits.
We turn up the stairs and enter the Thunderdome.
Roxxy's mainfloor is set up like a bowl.
Two bar areas surround the perimeter such that onlookers can observe the large and fluid group dance.
We walk into this giant, flashing vortex, where individual identity is lost.
A young party-girl approaches us from the center, meeting us at the periphery.
She is clearly intoxicated on sexual empowerment or something else chemically attached to her brain.
She immediately flashes me (with a smile).
I oblige her with a cheap set of beads.
She waives at Big J, and repeats – rinse and repeat.
“HAHAHA!” he smiles “Yeah!”
Spin cycle time. The intoxication of her youthful sexual power and pheromones demand his attention -- but she had our attention regardless -- she needed not buy into this materialist corruption.
They immediately are grinding on one another.
Within seconds, this gesture has made his week, month, and year, a stark contrast from a daily life trapped in a cold and artless office, reminding him there is contact out there, even if superficial and disingenuous. Gazing at this frottage factory, I have instantly encouraged the degradation of this young female, recognizing not her spirit but glorifying the object. To escape disgust and guilt I go quickly for a beer.
I wade through the middle of the crowd, surfing towards the back-bar, with the goal of re-upping like Super Mario and further losing myself into this spectacle.
Always drink whiskey neat. What’s a whiskey neat?
“Barkeep, could I trouble you for a whiskey neat!”
I’ve made my way through to the Back Bar, a quiet, yellow bar that connects to a suspended bridge that overlooks the bamboo patio and shallow pool.
There’s a stripper pole in this bar, which is occassionally utilized by those enrolled in
pole dancing class, in order to display their new moves.
The bartender, a young, sandy-haired chap with
Buddy Holly glasses, resembling a pre-lapsarian Cobain, asks innocently, “What’s a whiskey neat?”
“WHAT DUDE? Whiskey neat is the simplest, purest of all drinks. Simply whiskey poured into a shot glass. It’s neat because there’s nothing except whiskey. The only way to drink whiskey. Barkeep dude, you want a shot of Crown Royal neat?”
“Maybe later…”
“In that case, make it 2 Crown Royals - neat! And a beer…”
The bartender is confused. “Hey - You going to pour or not? Let’s do this!” He abides. “Dude – you want the shot or not?”
Laughing, shaking his head, no…I’m a rum and coke guy…I know who will…
One shot down.
One shot in my hand, and a beer in the right.
I’m on the search for Big J, and I attempt to re-enter the Thunderdome but a large bouncer stops me.
On Friday / 18 and up nights, all the underage kids are on the dancefloor.
They don’t want degenerate 29-year olds such as myself plying minors with booze.
This is a classy joint, he explains, in words such as “No booze on the dance floor.” I nod my head in acceptance, and he winks back.
Back through the yellow bar, I nod at Buddy Holly, and he nods back, diggin’ it –
Whiskey Neat guy – he yells.
Then back around the periphery, and there is Big J, beer in hand.
I hand him the shot of whiskey.
He protests, “No way man – if I drink that I’ll puke.”
I shrug, down my second whiskey, and chide at him for being such a p.
Another party girl approaches us, a neck full of beads – “Nice, what you have to do for all of those?”
She smiles and points to the stage, “I was over there!”
There are women on the stage and the crowd and
DJ are throwing beads at them.
I don’t know what’s more predictable, that they’re on stage, or that we can’t stop staring.
I break off again away from Big J, drinking my beer and moving fluidly with the party.
One party-goer approaches me and compliments my beads.
She’s got an id around her neck, and I insult her beads for not being as sweet as mine. “You want to get some more?”
“Haha – no way!
I’m married and I have a six year old at home.”
“Nice!
Congratulations – she’ll be out here sooner than you can imagine.
Decades fly by.”
“I’m from
Q102.
We promote this party.
What do you think?”
“I think it’s awesome!”
Big J, on the other hand, is avoiding socially inept conversations with radio promoters, instead enjoying a never-ending party. Late in the evening, while we’re walking out of the club, he gives away his beads to a white hot party-girl with her impeccable party-boy. I chastise Big J. He giddily explains:
“Look man, I’m wasted and I had the time of my life! Definitely the most fun I’ve had in months! Maybe the most fun since I’ve had since Phish Halloween. You need to understand, however, those beads were broken. All night I walked up to girls, and they would see my beads and get stoked and literally grab me! They were totally mesmerized and obsessed with the notion of obtaining my beads. I would nod in agreement, and they would flash me! I’ve never experienced anything like that in my entire life! Hot girls coming up to me and showing off their stuff! This worked really well until just before we left, a girl came up to me and flashed me, but just in her bra. I pretended like I would give them to her –“ he motions, as if he’s taking them off – “then I put them back on myself, instead. She didn’t appreciate the trickery, and grabbed my beads and pulled down, ripping the strand. I gave them away to that couple because they were nice. They complimented us and joked with us, assuming we’d had one helluva time based upon our showing of neck accoutrements.”
