On a typical Thursday night, in the midst of a heated poker game, I was employing my usual strategy of playing it safe until I was sufficiently drunk to throw it all away when I received a special visit from my friend, “Sam”. Apparently there was this “crazy” party materializing at some place called the Tribeca Grand that I “had to go to.” Being an ignorant freshman, I had no conception of what he was jabbering about and foolishly told him we should just go to San Marcos and get wasted.
He left the room disgusted with my lack of adventure and enthusiasm but I was almost two forties in and couldn’t have cared less. After expectedly losing my last chip I joined up with the usual bar crew and departed for the freshman oasis, San Marcos. The place would’ve let in a ten year old boy with a 40 year old women’s id as long as it said he was over 21. (Apparently they were desperate for service because they would close down later that year.)
Upon arriving I was surprised to see Sam already there alongside a few other familiar faces as well as some unknown women. I asked him if he had “come to his senses and realized San Marcos was the way to go.”
“Hell no you fuckin moron” was his quaint reply. I ignored that response for the moment and poured myself a brimming glass of bud light from the recently purchased pitcher. In my dumb, alcohol given confidence I walked up to some blonde chick my friend was talking to and proceeded to dance, make out with, and allegedly attempt to finger minutes after introducing myself. I have only heard second hand reports of the last act and although I have no recollection of this, nor do I hope it happened, based on previous encounters it is sadly not outside the realm of possibility or even expectation.
Thankfully I was dragged away by one of the friends I had arrived with. He told me that we were after all, going to this “hot spot” Tribeca Grand place. Whatever I thought to myself, this crazy girl had stopped talking to me anyways (probably on account of me sliding my fingers into inappropriate places) and we had four other girls with us already.
We hailed down two cabs and gave the driver the address. When we arrived I almost turned around and walked right back into the cab. I was not 21, and my i.d. looked like a seventh grade arts and crafts project. The bouncer I saw was a massive, imposing monster dressed in a suit with an ear piece. This was uncharted territory for me; Jesus an ear piece. Who in God’s name could he be talking to? The police? I’d be arrested on the spot. Before I could dissuade anyone from entering they had already presented their ids. Sam had given us a name to recite at the entrance. Apparently that had some sway because after carelessly glancing at our ids while I nervously shifted in my stance he let us right in. I couldn’t believe it; I even gave that damned gatekeeper a knowing nod as if I had been there countless times.
We walked in hesitantly heading toward the origin of the vibrant noise and swanky music. There was another bouncer in front of a velvet rope separating a private party and half the bar. The furniture was sleek, clean, and had an air of sophistication that went with the dim lighting and dress code…most of the men wore suits or at least business casual. I had on jeans, sneakers, and an old Texas shirt. Perhaps because I was dressed like absolute shit they thought I was so important that this self imposed dress code didn’t apply to me. More realistically though it’s likely that the bouncers were just too high on cocaine to notice that night. Amazingly, our party was in the VIP area or we luckily walked in when the bouncer wasn’t looking. Either way we arrived and ordered a round of nine dollar bud lights and proceeded to relax in the lounges and sip the most expensive beer I had ever purchased. It tasted better too, to be around all of these fine, rich, classy metropolitans; the decadence of it all was a bit overwhelming. Then one of these upstanding gentlemen came up and insisted to the girls we were with to join him in a line of coke (not coca cola). I had just become comfortable around weed, but now having this “hard” drug staring me right in the face dressed up like an upscale business man threw me into a storm of cognitive dissonance. After pleading with our eyes for the girl, Erika, not to accompany him she relented to his persistence and agreed to take a seat in our view.
Then I looked up and saw the majestic lights floating above us as the rim around each floor was lighted with neon green that presented an eerie glow. From that central bar area you could see clear to the top of the building and each floor moved closer and closer to the center creating a glowing bull’s eye of sorts in green luminance and darkness.
When my gaze returned to our level I saw our dear friend sitting uncomfortably at the lounge while the elder gentlemen, eager for her company, seemed to be shifting his head on the counter behind her. What an odd position I thought to myself only later to learn that he had in fact been doing lines behind her head (I guess it wasn’t flakes that I saw in her hair after all).
I couldn’t stop staring at all of the whorishly dressed women escorted by men capable of providing for their extravagant tastes. These girls were beautiful and then I had to piss. As I walked by the guy guarding the entrance to the select party I confidently assured him of my impending return. I knew he’d remember my face. The bathroom was decked out with more goodies than a seven eleven complete with a strapping young cashier exuberantly handing out warm towels and paper sheets. My three dollar tip is still the most expensive piss I’ve ever taken which in terms on the Manhattan elite is laughingly low, but I’ve always been low class. I caught myself staring at the assortment of products lining the bathroom and forced myself to leave before I ended up getting charged for standing there.
The bouncer immediately opened the velvet rope when he saw me coming. What a sucker I thought, I had no idea what the fuck this party was or even where I was. I stepped back into the aura of pretentiousness and put on my best I’m rich but don’t dress like it face. As I was walking innocently back to our seated area with a self imposed air of superfluous grandeur I was stopped by a stunning dark haired temptress. She wore a red dress in just enough places to leave some things to the imagination and had dazzling green eyes that seemed to stare right through me and I thought she must’ve been staring right through me…until she spoke directly at me. My immediate reaction was of course to turn around to see who she was really speaking to. However, much to my disbelief there was no one there. Was this model so fucked up on drugs she had mistaken me for a man of wealth with something to offer her aside from a chance to be signed into my dorm bedroom that I shared with two other people. Christ she was just a bit shorter than me with those heels on and then she repeated her question.
“And who are you here with tonight?” Thank God I was drunk which helped alleviate the incredible awkwardness with which I usually confront these situations. After convincing myself this was real I went right with it. I told her I was with “Sebastian’s party over near the circular red booths and lounges.” She nodded as if she understood.
I put myself on the line as I dared continue the conversation risking being found out for the imposter that I was any moment and asked her “Who might you be here with tonight?”
Her answer was fluid and completely beyond me; it was in a language and with references that I had no hope of understanding. She said, “Ugh, I’m with Saul’s party but the fucking dick will not stop ordering the same fucking shots of patron and my girl friend Briana is just totally wasted like already thrown up twice, but don’t tell anybody and now I’m so tired of their same old partying. You know, they’re probably going out to Marquee after this, as if I haven’t been there every fucking night. So now I’m just on my way to get another drink.”
I just stared at her, she could’ve been speaking some extinct Nordic language for all I knew but damn was she beautiful and that sparkling pearl that rested deep within her cleavage kept flashing at me beckoning me to stare deeper. When she had finished that line I realized, late, that it was my cue to offer her a drink. It was at this point I had the option of going for a totally baller move and spending the last 50 bucks in my account on an obscenely expensive drink for her in the vain hope that she’d ask me back to her place (there was no way I would be able to explain away the procedures of signing into a freshman dorm with any hope of her maintaining a conversation let alone eye contact with me) or I could just be me. Sadly, I chose the latter.
“Nice, well I recommend the sex on the beach it’s addictive and like Pringles once you pop you just can’t stop.” Jesus could that joke have been any more corny and just completely misplaced for this situation. Her disappointed reaction told me no. I tried one last time to salvage a lost cause when I said as she was already walking by, “By the way my name’s Matt and you should come by our party if you wanna try meeting some other people.” She didn’t even turn to look and see me pointing in the direction of where we were sitting. “Damn, that was brutal” I thought. Probably for the best, she didn’t deserve me anyways. I walked past the creepy coke man to get to our lounges as he stood, powder nose and all, staring hungrily at Erika. It was a stare that told me I never wanted to do cocaine…or be friends with that guy.
As we were all running low on funds to fuel a drinking habit that was blatantly unaffordable here and the alluring novelty of the Tribeca Grand was waning we decided to set off before any more illicit substances made their way into our night. It was nearly four in the morning as I gave my last overdone head nod to that bouncer with a clipboard.
“Have a good night buddy,” I said and as he looked up he gave me an expression of immediate shock sort of like, “what the fuck were you doing in there and I hope I wasn’t the bastard that let you in.” Needless to say, we were pretty tight.
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