by Schow, Ryan
We sit in front of the TV and mindlessly transform into couch zombies until I can’t keep my eyes open.
“I need a nap,” I finally say.
When you spend your mornings getting your butt absolutely handed to you by your sensei, you start to think of your afternoons as a “recovery period.” A time to rebuild all that was lost in the hours before.
Because of my super-human healing, cuts have already sewn themselves shut, torn muscles are now fully mended, scrapes and bruises are faded and gone, and my endurance is supposedly rebuilding. Supposedly. I feel sleepy though, and sleep does wonders for me. Sleep and protein. I take a protein bar to bed, eat it, then fall asleep without any effort at all.
When I wake up, Netty’s mother is serving dinner and Netty’s already dressed and ready for karate. It’s strange eating next to someone wearing their martial arts gi.
“When I’m done tonight,” Netty says, “we’re going out.”
“Where are you going?” Irenka says.
“Only to the best club ever.”
“What club is that?” I say, yawning. God, I feel like I’ve got mud running through my veins. Maybe this endless supply of energy has a bottom after all.
“First we’ll check out a few clubs I’ve been hearing about,” Netty says, “then we’ll go to The Parlor.”
I’m thinking, the first thing you want to do when you get your fake ID is sample the menu. The second thing is not get caught. Which begs the question, why are we having this convo in front of her mother???
“Isn’t that a twenty-one and over club?” Irenka asks.
“Abby and I have our fake ID’s, mother, we’ll be fine.”
My heart stops cold. Like it’s been stepped on. For a second, my mouth hangs open and my brain scrambles to comprehend the bullshitedness that just left Netty’s face. Did she just rat us out? Before I can even give Netty the stink eye, her mother says, “Before you leave, I want to see them.”
“Why?” Netty asks. “They’re fine, I swear.”
“If they’re that good,” Irenka says, and I’m holding my breath at this point, “then you can go, but if they’re crap, you aren’t going anywhere. The last thing I need is to bail you out of jail.”
I shut my mouth, but I still can’t blink. My brain says I’m in the Twilight Zone.
“They’re not crap, mother. Promise. They’re straight up legit.”
I gulp and say, “You sounded just like my father when you said that.” Both Irenka and Netty look at me and I don’t know what to say. I still can’t believe we aren’t grounded right now.
“Eat,” Irenka finally says, breaking the blank, three-way stare.
So we eat.
4
Even before Netty’s done with karate, I’m dressed to go clubbing and itching to go. Netty gets home, drinks a massive strawberry protein shake, takes a five minute shower, then dresses in a way that says she’s both DTF and impossible to get. It’s a sexy contradiction. With a mischievous grin, she calls herself the unf*ckable princess, except for the right boy, of course. She always seems to have this way of making me laugh. Her mother, however, tells her to mind her manners. Whatever that means. Don’t screw any boys tonight? Netty nods like she gets the point. Before we can leave, however, her mother sticks out her hand and says, “ID’s.” Dutifully, we hand them over.
She studies both a long time, then says, “These are good. Be careful you two.”
The whole time my heart is kicking up a storm because I’m thinking there’s no freaking way any responsible parent can look over their child’s fake ID, give them two thumbs up and send them on their way.
But she does, and I’m like, holy effing cow. Then again, the woman sets up swingers’ parties for a living. How much trouble can we really get into that would have her batting her eyelashes twice?
Early is the night, I tell myself.
The first stop is on Polk Street, between Sutter and Post, a dicey little joint called the Hemlock Tavern.
“You sure about this place?” I ask as we approach the door.
“It’s a hipster hangout,” she says. “It should be fun.”
Some guy with monster pecks, a generous gut and a tightly trimmed goatee studies our ID’s, then hands them back and waves us in. I barely even have time to conjure images of us in jail before we’re walking into the cozy, dimly lit bar. The place isn’t packed, but in the live performance room some retro version of some band I’ve never heard of is playing what sounds like light punk mixed with an alternative beat.
“They kind of sound like The Ramones,” Netty says.
“I don’t know The Ramones,” I say, and she tells me I don’t have to. We order drinks. Nothing fancy. Just a couple of Long Island Ice Teas. All around us, there are interesting people to look at. Not model-perfect people like I’m used to at Astor (thank God), but people of real character. The problem is, the way they’re all looking back at me, it’s like I’m the freak here.
“I feel like Taylor Swift at a Slayer concert,” I say to Netty over the noise.
“Really?” Netty asks. She says this like she can’t believe it. Like I’m not the prettiest, cleanest looking girl in this establishment by a country mile.
“Everyone here looks original and calm and I feel like an uptight Raquelle doll. The girl nobody wants to play with.”
“They’ll be fine,” Netty says.
“I’m not worried about them. It’s me. I feel totally out of place.”
We finish our drinks, then head to the Red Devil Lounge, which is up Polk Street at Clay.
Netty says, “This is the kind of place where bands like The Obesity Epidemic, Audiodub, The Cheeseballs, Pop Rocks and Get The Fuck Out Of My Pool play.”
Suddenly I’m feeling so disconnected from the music and club scene I have to remind myself it’s okay to be here, to experience new things. I force a smile. Looking around at this old theatre-turned-music club, I can’t help but notice how more relaxed of a crowd this is. Not that it matters. With this pit in my stomach, and fresh anxiety charging through me, I really don’t belong.
The décor is different from the tavern, and the music is now front and center, rather than shoved back in another room. I like the red lanterns everywhere, and even the gold accents. I tell myself it’s warm and charming. That the people are nice. I tell myself everything will be okay even though I’m starting to wonder if my social anxiety disorder is back.
“If you drink here,” Netty says into my ear over the music, “be careful, I hear they make them strong.”
I do drink (a Fuzzy Navel) and it is strong. Two foreign guys ask if we’ve been here before. They’re both handsome, but not so much that they bowled us over with self-confidence, or even worse, arrogance.
“First time,” Netty says to one of the guys over the music.
“I like your accent,” the better looking of the two says. You can tell he’s talking louder than normal, but it sounds like a whisper against all the other noise.
“What’s on the second floor?” I ask.
The Red Devil Lounge has the right ambiance, and the right music. I decide I like this place. As for the Fuzzy Navel, my head is now swimming against the current. When the better looking of the two guys takes my hand and leads me upstairs, I don’t say no, and I don’t pull away. Something in me says, just go with it. So I do.
By the time we’re on the second floor, my body gets to feeling a little warm, but not the same way it does when I’m healing. The syrupy euphoria in my head is swishy and hypnotic, the best buzz ever.
The guy I’m with, he tells me his name, which I forget almost instantly. I almost don’t care. If he turns out to be a non-douche, I’ll ask it again. Until then, whatevs.
He waits for me to tell him my name. I don’t say a word. He finally asks.
“I’m Abby,” I reply.
Fortunately, my buzz neither lessens nor becomes the sweeping dizziness of being fully drunk. After a few minutes of sitting at a cocktail
table with this guy, I realize he is shallow and narcissistic, and he’s trying too hard. It’s a total turn off.
And sadly, he’s exactly what I expected.
Netty is with the other guy, so I say, “Let’s go join our friends.” I start to stand up, but he takes my hand, stopping me, and he’s like, “I like it here with just you and me,” and I’m like, “Dude, you’re a party of one. Not to be rude.”
But it is rude, and I know this. I shouldn’t be impolite, because I’ve come to learn this is how a lot of guys are. They’re always wanting something. I shrug off his hand.
“Listen,” I say, “I’m sorry for being a cold fish. It’s just, this is my first time out in a long time and I feel like I’m exuding the wrong vibe. I’m usually a go-with-the-flow kind of girl, but not tonight. Sorry.”
He leans over the table and tries to kiss me, but instinctively I palm his face and stop his forward advance. He makes a weird eye gesture through my fingers and I let go.
It’s official: this is totally awkward.
“I’m not interested,” I say, standing up. “Perhaps you would do better to learn the signals.”
“I…uh…wow,” he says, clearly embarrassed. He plops back down in his chair. “That didn’t go the way I wanted.”
When he says this, it feels genuine, but really, it’s time to go. Netty, unfortunately is having the same weak game run on her, so I come to her rescue and we decide the RDL isn’t our scene. We ditch the guys and head for the front door.
“Where to now?” I ask.
“The Parlor, I guess,” she says.
“It’s about time,” I mumble. This night, so far, it isn’t exactly exceeding my expectations.
5
In the Audi, we drive to Leavenworth Street, near San Francisco’s North Beach Waterfront, where a tree-lined street boasts a three story brick building (The Del Monte Cannery Building) that spans the entire city block. More than anything, the structure has that charming, turn-of-the-century look. Something inside me feels anxious, but I’m not sure if it’s a good or a bad type of anxiousness.
“Is there a nearby parking garage?” I ask.
Netty starts punching buttons on the Audi’s nav system, then says, “Down Beach. Between Hyde and Columbus.”
Before we reach the garage, Netty finds us an open parking space on Hyde. We park the car and head for the club. Outside, a light breeze carries with it the salty smell of the San Francisco bay. Walking up the sidewalk under a canopy of freshly trimmed trees and the darkening night sky, I can’t help feeling both anxious and at ease. I can’t explain it.
It’s like a freaking war going on inside me.
The Parlor itself is simply gorgeous. We descend a flight of stairs which drops us into the main bar where music and the voices of a packed floor wash over us like shimmering honey. With the amber lighting, the stained concrete floors and a huge wall of liquor behind the bar, I know I have stepped into something special. A piece of the past not everyone will ever see. In fact, I feel so comfortable and so in my element, it’s the first true happiness I’ve experienced since coming to stay with Netty. This and talking to Georgia.
“I love this place,” I say into Netty’s ear. Her eyes are big, too, as she takes it all in. She just nods her head.
“It’s more than I hoped for,” she says, mesmerized.
We move through a packed floor to the bar, squeeze in, then wait our turn and ask the bartender for something original. He says, “It doesn’t sound enticing, and it’s not on the menu, but I think you’ll like the Alligator Piss.”
“What’s in it?” I ask. I can’t get over how good looking he is.
“Midori melon liquor, peach schnapps, Southern Comfort, Amaretto and a splash of sweet and sour. If you don’t like it, I’ll buy the next round. Anything you want.” He smiles, showing us just how cute the dimples in his cheeks are.
Me and Netty look at each other, smile, and then both of us nod. We want the drink. We want the bartender. He’s got to be twenty-five at least. He’s got thick, black hair that practically sits on his shoulders and deeply tanned skin, like he was born somewhere overseas and exotic. It’s easy to see he works out. It’s impossible not to notice. Me and Netty are practically staring. Practically drooling. He returns, and we both just stand there and blush.
He sets the drinks in front of us, and true to his word, they’re unbelievable. “We’ll be buying the next round,” Netty says, with a suggestive grin. He winks; we wink. Yep, it’s like that. We turn away from the bar so as not to appear to be clingy teens, even though I so want to cling right now. On the left are two large U-shaped booths surrounding circular tables. They’re both full.
Behind them, along the dark brown wall boasting a huge gold Guinness placard, is a free table. It needs to be cleaned, but whatever. We sit there, and barely a minute passes before a woman comes to clear it and wipe it down. She asks how we are and if we need anything, then smiles when we show her how full our drinks are.
“How big is this place?” Netty asks the woman.
“Sixty-five hundred square feet. There’s The Club, which is our dance floor, The Whisky Room and the Library—both VIP rooms, and several private booths if you want to just relax with someone special. Or heaven forbid, watch TV.”
Looking around at the rustic chandeliers, the distressed tables, the exposed steel beams on the ceiling, and the velvet fabrics, it’s hard not to completely be in love with this place.
Plus, there are gorgeous people everywhere. Not perfect people. Gorgeous people. I’m barely intrigued by perfection, but only because I see so much of it at Astor. Nowadays, it’s the plain people, even the homely looking ones, who catch my eye. The fact that I’m no longer the ugliest broad in the room (not since my Savannah days) keeps me in the right vibe. Subconsciously, I feel myself looking for everyone’s flaws, because to a girl like me, it’s your flaws that define you.
Perhaps that’s why I’ve had such a difficult time getting in touch with myself. I have no flaws. It’s seems unnatural to have grown up as the world’s hideous, most unwanted troll, and now be able to say I have no flaws. But it’s true. Sipping my drink, I can’t help thinking that’s what millions of dollars and genetics can do for you. It truly can turn you into Malibu Barbie’s bestie, the perfect Raquelle doll.
A smart looking boy who has to be in college looks at me from one of the U-shaped booths, then away, then back. The smile on my face comes easy because he reminds me of Brayden.
Brayden…God, I miss him.
I didn’t realize how much until just now. Note to self: Call Brayden tomorrow.
My eyes pull away, return to Netty. “This is good,” I tell her, nearly finishing my drink. The efficiency in which I’ve been consuming drinks tonight should have me worried, but I’m not. Is that a bad thing?
Just then, Netty’s eyes narrow and her mood plummets from clear blue skies to dark and stormy. Her energy crashes downward, going from radiant to a swamp-like mire.
My eyes follow Netty’s eyes and that’s when I see Chloe. She’s on the dance floor with a bunch of other people, moving in a way most men would find sexy.
Hell, I find it sexy.
I put my hand on Netty’s arm. She flinches. Chloe sees us; it throws her rhythm off a bit, but then she recovers. She glances back twice more and twice more neither me nor Netty look away.
“She really is beautiful,” I hear myself say to Netty over the music.
Netty stands and says, “I can’t take this shit.” Ever since Chloe had Netty fired from her job for breaking up with her, Netty’s been pissed.
She heads out to the dance floor just as Chloe’s leaving. I watch them talk for awhile as another song comes on. Things look heated for a second, then Netty calms down. A guy starts talking to me—tall, dark, brown hair and handsome—but I brush him off, watching Netty and Chloe, drinking from my drink only to find it empty.
Finally, Netty and Chloe hug and that’s when Netty brings her over.
Chloe says, “Hi,” but she’s sounding a bit nervous, which is weird. She mostly strikes me as the comfortably-confident type. Netty says she has to use the bathroom, leaving both me and Chloe here to talk.
Okay…rude.
Chloe smells clean and airy, like the way you’d want fresh air to smell. For some indefinable reason, I have the urge to move closer to her.
“I’m really jealous of you,” Chloe says over the music.
“What?” I stammer. “Why?”
“Because you’re so beautiful. And because Netty picked you over me.”
“We’ve been best friends for what seems like forever,” I tell her. “Never lovers.”
“So you don’t want to be with her in that way?” she says. I expect she’s taunting me, but the look in her eyes is earnest.
Aghast at the thought, I blurt out the words, “No, not at all.”
She then takes my hand, pulls me up and walks me to the dance floor. WTF??? “Women are more sensual than men,” she says, looking over her shoulder. “It’s our gift.”
“That’s not exactly a news flash,” I practically yell as we enter the crowd on the dance floor. The music is super loud and I have no idea how to dance. Perhaps tonight, this will be my defining flaw. The hot girl with no rhythm.
Chloe starts moving and it’s exotic, riveting. I try to move like her, but clearly I can’t. She closes in and says, “As beautiful as you are, you can’t dance for shit.”
I blush, but she pulls me even closer and says, “Mimic my body,” so I do. Deep down, knowing she is a lesbian, this has me wondering so many things. Is she hitting on me? Using me to get back at Netty? Is she setting me up to make me look like a fool for taking Netty from her?
What fun it would be to make the best looking girl in the club look stupid. I’m thinking, this is no different than high school. And not much different from being the ugly girl people love to ridicule. Opposite, but the same.
But then I’m moving like she’s moving, finding that groove, feeling my body catching a deeper, more sensual rhythm. For a second, I realize I don’t look like a fool. For a second, I feel…sexy.