Seven

I’m being bombarded by “Regret”. New Order’s “Regret”. Before that we had Depeche Mode’s “Personal Jesus”, and prior to that, something by White Zombie. Lights are flashing. Some people are dancing, some are sitting at the bar, while others stand around and chat. I just stand there and I take it all in.

Did I mention I don’t like crowds? Probably not. Well, I don’t like crowds, but occasionally I find myself drawn to large masses of people. I like how I can just disappear and cease to exist within a collective. At times it seems that if one wants to be completely alone, the best way to do it is to submerge oneself in an ocean of people. Sound like a paradox? It is. It’s probably why I brought it up in the first place.

I’m not really a part of this crowd, though. I stand apart, taking it all in. I feed off of the rhythm, but I don’t dance. I feel the excitement in the air, but I am not aroused. I drink, but I’m not drunk. Okay, I’m drinking a Sprite…, or a Seven-Up. I don’t drink alcohol except for certain occasions, weddings, or if I’m traveling. Even then I take it light. I don’t plan on drinking tonight.

Oh, yeah. It’s Tuesday night. After work, but hours before the early a.m. asswhoopin’ I got. I’m at Redemption. Actually this place is only Redemption on Tuesdays. The rest of the week it’s Suspiria. I have no idea what kind of place Suspiria normally is, but I’m guessing it’s just a normal dance club.

That’s pretty much what this place is. Granted, the women are scantily clad, as are a few of the men. There’s a forty-ish dude laying face down on the floor. He’s wearing a French maid’s outfit and he wants people to walk on his back. I walked around him on my way to my own little corner where I can watch the shiny patent black leather, the piercings, the shaved heads, the wigs, the exposed flesh, the faces covered in make-up, zippermasks, muzzles and gags, the giant transvestites who hover over everything like strobe lighted goddesses, the bare chested brothers in turbans, Arabian swords at the ready, the seventy-two year old man, giddy as hell as he is led to and fro on a short leash by a slender young maiden in colonial garb. This is not the freak show I was expecting, exactly. As a matter of fact, the whole affair seemed quite natural to me. This was simply “Cool”.

One corner is where one could find the bar. There was a stage currently occupied by two female dancers who caressed one another as Prince sang “If I Was Your Girlfriend”. In between the bar and the dance floor, against opposite walls, were two seating areas, each with a couch, a small table, and two or three additional chairs. Intutitively, I steered clear of them. I suspected those areas were reserved, though I chose not to ask anybody. In the area, closer to the entrance, stood a slight man in a tux, with his face painted red and two small horns appended to his forehead. He paid attention to no one in particular. Not the two young men behind him, hand cuffed to each other, nor the rest of the club’s current occupants. He held what seemed to be a martini in his left hand, smiled briefly and took a sip.

I glanced at the other seating area and noticed a girl sitting there by herself. She appeared to be waiting. For what? Or who? She momentarily glared in the direction of the red faced man, and her countenance revealed an amused contempt. Perhaps I’m misreading that. The red faced man, raised his glass to the girl, smiled, and took another sip. One of the hand cuffed young men whispered something to the other, who promptly raised an eyebrow, lowered it and then grasped his companion’s hand (which was never far away because of the hand cuffs). They both seemed concerned about something. The red faced man seemed content, and the girl seemed like her patience was starting to wear thin.

There was something about the way her nose and mouth protruded from her face that made me think she was Jewish. I generally find young Jewish women exotic and hot, though I don’t think they age well for some reason. There are exceptions, of course. She was about five foot – two inches (I’m guessing – and that doesn’t include the two or three inches on her heels), had short platinum blond hair. Her head seemed a little large for her smallish body, currently wrapped in some sort of white satiny material from her torso to her upper thighs. It laced up in the back like a corset and looked constricting. It was hard to tell if was enhancing or imposing her figure. The outfit was completed by matching white arm-length gloves and knee high laced boots, it’s high heels I’d just mentioned.

She looked at me for a second. It appeared as though she recognized me and was trying to remember what my name was. Perhaps I’m misreading the situation. She’s turned her attention from me to the small crowd on the dance floor. Marilyn Manson is singing “Great Big White World”. The red faced man is looking at me, now. I can’t read him. He’s completely emotionless, still holding his martini glass. Suddenly, I wonder what’s become of Geoff and Joanne. There’s a basement floor to this place. I think I’ll go check it out.

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