How loud does it need to be? When does it feel like the present,
like the real moment? The chords crecendo and the beat thumps deep
in your chest till it reminds you of that moment lost so long
ago--laying over your mothers shoulder, her gentle voice caressing
you to comfort--but even that isn't here, it isn't now. The little
spark of you is still untouched. Music fills the air. Rhythms build
and fall into one another trying to draw you in, to pull you up
into their world and truly experience; but what happens when you
can't get free? Where is that line drawn inside you. A hundred
people around you and you've never felt so alone.
Alone? No, that doesn't put it right. The music is something
physical. It beats against your chest, it rides up your legs, it
shakes your drink. The club air hangs thick with fog and sweat, yet
it too pulsates and hums in exhuberence like the molecules will
burst apart from all the energy in the room. It is alive with that
pulse, and the moisture feeds it.
A teenage girl who snuck in on a fake passport that looks nothing
like her writhes as sweat pours down to the small of her back.
A skinny boy with a facial tattoo rubs it onto his chest as he
grinds against her, the music finally freeing him from his own
insecurities and fears. He is free to hunt her, and she to lure him
into her trap. The music binds them and gives them power. The sound
has beaten in their walls and overwhelmed their senses. Not even
fatigue pulls at them anymore.
No, you're not alone, you're just not invited.
And still it's distant like we are standing outside, or worse, like
we are reading it in a book. The scene is descriptive, even
vibrant, but it doesn't connect. Is it our fault that we can't let
go, that we can't see the world like the rest of them? Why are they
so willing to subjigate themselves to the will of that energy?
They'll claim it's the release, like that explains it all, like we
all desire that sense of letting go. What happened to control?
Where is the sense of fulfilment that comes from staying cool
headed?
No, there's no use arguing against it. We'd let go if we could, you
and I. The control is an excuse, like how we claim metal
rollercosters are as good as wooden ones, but despite their loops,
they don't give us that thrill of feeling our own mortality.
There's nothing at stake. It's the fox and the grapes.
But the music is here. The energy is here. We are here. There's no
excuse. Release is the whole purpose of the night.
Mike let go, so did Paul and Dom. It was enough for them. Fifteen,
sixteen drinks, a tab of ecstasy, and girls who were in training
bras when we were in college all ready to rub against us; but half
naked coeds boozed beyond logic don't come close to touching that
spark, though. They reach for me, but all I see is your hands. They
want a distraction. They want to take their minds off it all.
Paul said the club would tear us up. We'd all get wasted, as if it
did some sort of honor to you. We could talk about everything after
the trip. Tonight we'd clear our heads, and this week we'd get away
from it all. That's what he said, but it isn't working. How could
I let it go, even for a minute?
#
“Jeff!“ The voice was barely audible over the rave, sounding more
like a pattern to the noise than a voice. He focused his eyes on
Dom's mouth so he could piece together what was being said to him.
“--space jam monkey...party after...Canada...rolling Hasselhoff!“
The lip reading obviously didn't work.
“What!?“
“God damn Mikey! He's taking us...party after...Canada! Bastard is
rolling his ass off!“ Dom repeated. That middle part was still
pretty messed up, but he got the drift.
“Fuck no! We've gotta leave by six tomorrow. Tell him to forget it!
There's no way I'm...“ but Dom was shaking his head. He couldn't
hear either.
There was no way he was going to another party after this. This
place made him want to tear his skin off. The music pulls at you
and pulls at you, but when you can't let go, when you don't want
to, it's just noise. Loud, obnoxious noise.
He made a gesture to Dom, throwing up his arms in a big X and
making the buzzer noise from Family Feud which coincidentally
matched a similar sound in the song that had been playing for the
last ten minutes; in the back of his mind he wondered if the DJ had
gone to the bathroom. Dom got the hint and smiled with
understanding before turning and working his way back onto the
floor to find the others.
“The rest of this trip better not go like tonight,“ he muttered to
himself.
#
Outside the night air brought a welcome chill to his face. A light
breeze swept the smells of Atlantic City over the group, which
noone was too pleased about, but Jeff let them fill him. They, at
least, were real. The urine-like smell of the brackish water mixed
in the air with sweat, alcohol and the stale wafting of the CVS
across the street. It had rained a little while they were inside.
Not enough to bring in the fresh smell of rain or to wash the city
clean. It was just enough to mix things up into a wet soup.
“Come'on! Let's go to the after-party. There's this chick who can
swallow a whole banana.“ Announced Mike as he almost fell out the
side door. A girl with pink hair and a face like an elbow followed
him laughing with too much enthusiasm and not enough breath mints.
She had spilled her drink on herself at some point, or maybe it was
blood, he couldn't be sure. “Don't be a punk. We haven't seen each
other in a year.“
“It's 2am already. We need to start driving by six. How the hell--“
“We'll still be rolling at six anyway! Lets just go have some fun.
We'll get there when we get there.“
“That girl is, like, 16, dude,“ Paul chimed in.
“What the fuck!“ she replied, ladylike.
“Fuck it.“ Mike threw his arms up.
“So what are we doing?“ said Dom, trying to bring the conversation
back. Everyone looked at Jeff, except Elbow girl, who continued to
stare at Paul, as if inviting further comment.
“I'm getting some sleep. You guys can do what you want. I don't
want to mess up your good time.“
“Fuck it.“ Mike said again, shaking his head. Then, gesturing to
the Elbow, “What about her.“
“No way, dude. Jail bait, I'm telling you.“ Paul said.
The girl stepped up to Paul like she was ready to fight, then
busted out with what must have been spanish insults. Jeff was
a little surprised at the Latino thing.
“Yeah, and she kinda looks like a foot.“ Dom said over Paul's
shoulder, trying to get her more riled up.
“Fuck it.“ he said a third time.
“Fuck it,“ they all said. They started back toward the car, leaving
her behind.
“She was more of an elbow than a foot.“ Jeff added.
“Hm...“ Dom contemplated. “I'm still pissed we're missing banana
girl.“
Latin Elbow girl stood staring after them, mouth hanging open.
