Going Out

I don't like nightclubs. This says a lot about me as a person, I suspect, especially if you're one of those people who really likes to make broad, sweeping generalizations about the world based on small, disjointed fragments of information. Still, there it is: I don't like nightclubs at all. Too loud, not enough talking.

Now, that said, I am also a person who tries to ignore his own dislikes if it benefits the greater good. Take yesterday, for example, when three of my friends and my girlfriend simultaneously and independently decided that we absolutely had to go out--out out--and that I absolutely had to come along with them. Despite my loathing of nightclubs, I accepted because, hey, you should know if you read the first sentence in this paragraph.

So out we went, my friends, my girlfriend, a whole bunch of people that knew them, and me. As with anything else that happens in The City, going out is a ritualistic endeavo(u)r that involves a lot of preparation and meticulous planning just so everything can come crashing down moments afterward. In this case, I was roped into inviting more people to come with us because there were too many girls and not enough guys in our party. See, there has to be a more or less equal amount so no one gets bored. Of course, no one gets bored anyway, but still. I was unsuccesful in wrangling the necessary amount of testosterone to go with all the X chromosomes that would be roaming around, but in the end I convinced myself that this was all right because I am a walking fountain of unbridled masculinity and artificially inflating my ego like that was the only way I was going to get through the night.

The place we picked for our splendid outing was a very posh place known as The Coffee and Book Gallery. This is as sensible a name for a nightclub as any, I think, if a little wordy; they'll name these things after anything as long as it sounds trendy and cool. I could probably come up with three or four decent names for clubs right now, watch: 'Incense', that sounds about right; 'Onomatopaeia' could work as well; how about 'Urban'? If I ever open a café or a nightclub (doubtful) I'll probably give it a really weird name just to throw people off.

But I digress.

The Coffee and Book Gallery is a salsa club strategically placed in the middle of one of The City's two nightlife districts, 93rd Street Park. The name is really a lot more fancy than what it is: a small, one-block park surrounded on all sides by restaurants, cafés, nightclubs, and one McDonald's. It is naturally very, very posh, the kind of place where wearing the wrong kind of clothes can get you evicted. No, I'm serious, the business owners in the park actually have a private security force that they hired to keep out people that don't fit in with the park's image. If you look even remotely like you're the type of person who, heaven forbid, doesn't own at least one thing that is worth more than USD$100 and serves no practical purpose, then you run the risk of being treated like a hobo. Of course, this meant that I had to dig around inside my closet for the one shirt and pants combo that looks halfway presentable to a discerning crowd. It was hard.

The funny thing about The Coffee and Book Gallery is that it's an 'old people' club. My friends and I (alternatively referred to as my 'crew' or my 'massive') were the only people there under the age of 40. We drew lots of perplexed stares and the girls were quickly pounced upon by every single, lonely guy in the entire joint. My friend Andrea was quickly picked up by a German guy and taken for a spin (literally) while my other frieds clung to each other in fear of being hit on by middle-aged men with bald spots and aching loins.

It's a shame, really, because if not for that then we would have been able to enjoy the place for what it was, which was pretty nice. The decoration was made up mainly of Buena Vista Social Club memorabilia and there was a screen in the middle of the dancefloor showing videos of concerts starring salsa legends like Celia Cruz and Richie Rey. If you're the type of person who doesn't mind dancing to the same type of music for hours on end, I guess you could kind of like this place.

Of course, what's the point in mentioning this without a funny story to go with it? It involves my friend Andrea (two paragraphs up. The last time I mentioned her she was being picked up by a German guy), who, at some point during the evening walked up to me and nearly yanked me off my girlfriend's arm.

"Help me," she said between anxious breaths, "please, please help me."

I looked at her funny. "What's wrong with you?"

"It's that guy."

"Oh, you mean the one you've been dancing with," I said cheerily. "Hey, it looks like you guys hit it off, I mean you've been dancing with each other for like an hour now."

My friend Andrea gripped my arm and squeezed, hard. Her hobby is pottery. You do not want to have your arm squeezed by someone whose hobby is taking hard lumps of clay and kneading them like dough.

"That's because he won't let me go," she protested, laughing despite herself. "He just keeps...talking to me and I can't get away. He's so horrible! I think he's going to try to kiss me!"

I was about to ask her what was so horrible, but at that moment the German guy appeared--no, not appeared, more like emerged--and sequestered my friend Andrea for another 15 minutes. Poor girl, she's much to sweet and kind to tell the guy to fuck off, bless her.

I talked to my girlfriend about the issue and she very wisely told me not to try and shelter her because 1. it's not like the guy was going to rape her, and 2. she needed to learn to blow off men anyway. I promised not to stick my nose where it didn't belong and shortly thereafter she left for the bathroom.

Two seconds later, my friend Andrea came back, promptly grabbed my arm painfully again, and dragged me to the dancefloor.

"You're asking me out to dance," she barked. "Now."

"What? Why"

She stared at me with a mixture of anger, fear, and trepidation, then pointed to the table where we were sitting. I was able to catch a glimpse of the German before my friend Andrea grabbed me and promptly activated the spin cycle on her feet.

"Can you believe it? He was actually talking to me about how he thought our children were going to turn out," she whimpered.

"I don't know," I replied. "You're both pretty good-looking, you could make some nice babies..."

I was going to continue, but I suddenly felt a searing pain where my bicep used to be. It still hurts where she pinched me.

"I swear," she said after some time, her tone calmer and more at ease. "That guy is just looking for nookie and he has no idea how to get it."

"Oh come on," I retorted, "it can't be that bad."

As if on cue, the German waltzed onto the dance floor with my girlfriend hanging from his arm.

"Oh yes it can," said my friend Andrea.

Now I was the one who was getting agitated. What kind of protocol do you follow in situations like these? It's all right if your partner dances with someone else, but holy crap, the guy had his big, aryan paws on my girlfriend's ass. He was honestly trying to feel her up as they danced, the way he tried to feel up my friend Andrea before. What was I supposed to do in a situation like that? I could have walked up to him and challenged him to a duel for putting the moves on my lady, but he was big, like a tank, and my body was built for love, not war. And why was my girl letting that happen, anyway? She wouldn't let me do that kind of thing...was there no justice in the world?

My silent questions were answered when the German let go of my girlfriend in the middle of the song and walked away looking sullen and morose. I stared at her, clutching to my friend Andrea and not even dancing anymore, as she walked past me calmly and sat down at our table. I, of course, followed her and interrogated her when we were both sitting down.

"So what happened with that guy, anyway?"

"Well, he couldn't find Andrea so he took me out instead," replied my girlfriend. "He was trying to score with me but I made him go away."

Oh? And how'd you do that?"

"Easy," she said, matter-of-factly. "I told him that you and I are getting married."

"..."

"What?"

"...is that supposed to make me feel better?"

She shrugged.

The evening eventually ended and we left, cutting swathes through the two types of people that populate The City in the wee hours of the morning: those who are smashed beyond hope, and those who aren't smashed beyond hope and wish they were. The story gets pretty boring from here, so I'll be brief: everyone went home, it was damn cold, and my clothes smelled like cigarettes the next day.

Oh, and my girlfriend possibly wants to marry me at some point in time.

See, this is why I don't like nightclubs.

Tags: nightclubs, dancing, salsa, going out