I’m in my apartment, waiting for my date James to arrive. We met a few days ago, after being isolated together at the LL Cool J concert. We had both been day drinking with my downstairs neighbors beforehand. I guess we must have lost track of the rest of them, because we ended up in the beer tent together. I guess at some point, James became slightly smitten.
He called me up. Turns out, we had both been invited to the Aphrodite show at Broadway Joe’s. I suggested that we go together.
“Oh, like, a date?” he asks.
“I don’t really have a ton of money to blow, er, I don’t think it should be a wild night.”
“No, definitely not,” I conclude. “I have to work early the next day.”
So here I am, getting myself primped and ready for a drum n’ bass rave party. I’m not typically in the glow stick crowd – but then again, I don’t roll with any crowd. I decide to wear a black and white minidress and some boots. Suddenly, there’s a rapping on my third floor door.
“Who is it?” I call out. My little loft is practically impossible for a stranger to access.
I open the door. James is standing there drinking a Four Loco.
“How’d you get up here?”
“I went through Mike and Jack’s downstairs,” James replies. This means he walked through their outside door, passed absentmindedly through their second floor apartment, up another flight of back stairs, and up to my unassuming, unmarked door.
“Oh – I didn’t know you knew where I live. Ok, let’s go.”
James drives the two of us in his car to Broadway Joe’s, everyone’s favorite Main and Minnesota destination. We get a pitcher of Rolling Rock to sustain us. Glow sticks illuminate the dance floor; ravers with hula hoops shimmy around; EDM beats boom out of giant speakers. I apparently missed the fashion memo; every other woman is wearing scrawled-on bell bottoms, bikini tops, fur leg warmers, glow-in-the-dark tiaras, feather boas, poppin’ molly and sweatin’.
I run into three long lost coworkers. We hug each other and go out to the back patio. Clouds of marijuana mushroom into the starry sky. I launch into a photo shoot of James in front of a graffiti-tagged garage. The night is turning out to be really fun.
James and I go back inside, and I can’t say I’m feeling him romantically but this night doesn’t totally suck. This show, this Aphrodite show, is totally random actually. Aphrodite, the drum n’ bass/jungle DJ, is actually quite a big deal in the UK. How he came to be performing for a small crowd at Broadway Joe’s is beyond me. I lean into the bar, squinting through the neon inferno.
A skinny guy runs up to James. “Hey, man, they towed a bunch of cars out of the parking lot next door! You better hope you didn’t park there, man. Because…if you did…your car is most likely gone. Gone, dude.”
“What? WHAT?! Fuck! No!”
With various tweaked-out exclamations, a bunch of guys vacate the bar with urgency. I’m a little buzzed, and watch scantily-clad background dancers gyrate on stage. Do they get paid? Maybe in drugs… Suddenly, James is back.
“My car is there, but it’s…” He looks side to side with growing suspicion. “Moved.”
“Moved?” I say.
He looks extremely confused. Dazed. He turns and nervously walks outside. I continue drinking. Five minutes later, James is back.
“I tried to drive my car, and it’s…fucked up!!”
“What do you mean, fucked up?”
“I tried to drive it, and something is wrong with the back end. I think he tried to tow it, fucked it up, and left!”
The two of us go outside. Sure enough, his car is sitting at the other end of the lot. James is pacing around, back and forth. It’s after three in the morning. I have to work at nine. James continues to pace.
“Look, I have AAA. We can call them.”
“But – but – my car! What are they going to do?”
“I don’t know…maybe they can tow it somewhere until the morning?”
“Yeah..yeah, ok.” He breathes a heavy sigh. “I’m really sorry this turned out to be such a wild night.”
I get on the phone with AAA, and end up taking a cab home to my bungalow alone. I guess James was OK.