A SHORT NIGHT OUT
Despite his tired legs and bad back, he felt buoyed by the music, a cross section of 90’s nostalgia with sexy, grimy bass lines.
Outside the venue by the parked bikes, he was frustrated that he’d made such a rookie mistake. He’d forgotten to take out from his bag a small round container that was packed with “in-an-emergency over-the-counter drugs”: paracetamol, advil and some anti-histamines in case, god-forbid, he had an allergic reaction to something he ate which sadly had been happening more frequently in the last few years.
There was no way the security at the venue would let him bring a container full of drugs into the club so he had to find a place to stash it outside. He thought of leaving it in his bike basket but that felt too risky. Someone might take it and the anti-histamines were not purchased in Amsterdam but were delivered from visitors passing through from Canada. Losing even a few of them would be significant.
Searching for a spot, he was reminded of years ago when he was staying at a friend’s studio apartment in Manhattan. She was a former dance colleague who retired and moved back to the States to study Art History. While he was visiting, she stayed with her boyfriend who was living in the Financial District. There’s a pink rock the size of my hand by the bushes outside the apartment, she said. I’ll just leave the keys there. It seemed crazy that anyone would do such a thing, but New York City is a crazy place and after finding the solitary key and feeling relieved to have found it, it made sense to him that in a city of millions of people, a random robber looking for a key under a rock in front of a specific apartment is highly unlikely.
He opted to leave the container on the ground by the outer wall of the building, close to his bike. Hidden in shadow, it seemed logical to him that no one would find it unless they knew where to look. His only hope was that he would leave the club before some drunk guy would use that particular corner to take a leak, but judging from the amount of parked bikes, it seemed like a slow night.
He gave himself a strict exit time of roughly 2am, which he lovingly refers to as Toronto time. Back in the day when he was partying in Toronto, most bars, including some clubs, would close at two in the morning. By 1:50 someone would grab the mic and you would hear over the speakers, first call for last call. At 1:55 again the voice would return, last call at the bar. By 2am the music was turned off, lights turned on and everyone scurried off, looking ghoulish in the harsh light. There were occasions when the lights would go on and the person you were flirting with all night looked nothing like he did, filtered through smoke and coloured lights. Sometimes ac club would be so dark, the only way you could see how someone looked was to hope he’d ask for a light for his cigarette and then you could shove a lighter close to his face for a more accurate look. Back then, people smoked in clubs.
Now the security takes your phone and covers the lens with a sticker. It’s more of a deterrent than anything. As he got to the dance floor, he watched a guy with a bunch of his friends head toward the DJs, phone in hand. Two DJs were playing a back-to-back set to the small crowd that was slowing starting to grow. He watched, as the guy held up his phone to try and videotape the DJs but then remembered that his phone had a sticker and chuckled lightly to himself, putting his phone back in his pocket.
He wondered what kind of pictures he could get away with in a venue that actively deters it. It’s a noble effort from parties and venues to keep phones off the dance floor. Queer spaces are sacred and for many a place of safety and self discovery. Even so, he missed capturing the vibe of a space with his phone, the silhouettes of bodies in motion, the strobing of lights inside a liminal space.
It was early and people were walking in and out of the room, unsure if whether the join the few people dancing or opt for another drink at the bar. Earlier that day, he threw out his back so even he was unsure of what his next would should be: keep dancing or go home?
Luckily, the crowd picked up just before 1am, a standard peak hour for a “regular”night out. The dance floor had the advantage of feeling large but being quite intimate. Even a party of only a hundred or so people already made the space feel full. As more people started to stream in he noticed a cluster who were busying themselves on the dance floor with a phone flashlight on, searching for something on the ground. Lost drugs? Keys? A contact lens? He hoped they would find what they were looking for.
Despite his tired legs and bad back, he felt buoyed by the music, a cross section of 90’s nostalgia with sexy, grimy bass lines. Two men took up space in front of him, both shirtless, wearing jeans. The sight of them and the rancid smell of poppers and body odour took him back yet again to Toronto, to his youth, where the combinations of those two scents were so prevalent.
Even though he didn’t stay long - couldn’t stay long: he had work the next day - he enjoyed what he was seeing and hearing. He felt fairly certain that some good mischief would he happening by 4am. The music was all the right amounts of sexy. Not overt or performative.
He stuck to his schedule and left before the night took off and got good. Was the price tag worth it for just a few hours on the dance floor. He wasn’t sure, maybe? He missed the days when you could enjoy this kind of premium experience for free at your local bar or club. We expected more from our local clubs and bars back then. But the world costs more now. This is what we’ve created.
On another night, if his back wasn’t so out of whack, he might have stayed, but maybe it saved him from make some terrible choices. He looked around the room with a sigh and left quietly, and wished the security a good night before exiting the club (be nice to your security guards folks).
His drugs were exactly where he left them.