April 24, 2011

if you walk away I walk away


Some nights are more alive than others. It's breeds distant hooks and tires thumping in a city that breathes tar and leaves lipstick on your pillowcase. Sometimes you can sing along but most times you just watch and nod. You don't talk back when they say "Hello, hi!" with wide triangle grins. Sometimes the night shows teeth, but most the time it's just a sidelong smirk.

I find myself at some warehouse and there's a party happening in it. I believe it's some sort of art party. You know you're at an art party when they don't call it an art studio or gallery. It's just a "space." I guess a BFA teaches you not to define the real estate you hang your sticks and stones in. Then again, in Brooklyn any space is an art gallery. So it doesn't quite matter then.

Everyone here is at least 30 so I feel the feeble protection of grown-up pretenses. Not that it matters since the folding table of empty bottles of Grey Goose and Jameson have thoroughly reduced whatever this events was supposed to be into some lazy rave, with projected laser-looking screensavers on the walls and ceiling. A skinny boy behind turntables fancies himself a DJ. There's disco thumping out of shitty speakers, there's no toilet paper in the bathroom, and there's little framed squares of brush strokes on white paper widely spaced out on the walls. Everyone looks like everyone and no one at the same time. They all must've called each other while getting ready tonight.

I stood in the center, bending my knees and waving my elbows and said, "Ok so this is Having Fun, right?"
"Pretty much."
"It's Saturday night, isn't it? This is what people do on a Saturday night."
"I guess so." 
"I'm having fun then... It's just okay, I guess."


It's the kind of night that appreciates your well-heeled shoes, your unwashed hair. "Light jacket weather" never knows what it wants from you. Don't bother chasing that tease because the more you flirt, the longer and colder the walk home is. It taunts you with your own breath. Some nights are eager to please, but mostly they just want your money.
Some have more to prove than others. But they don't want a thing to do with you. All nights secretly believe they'll live forever, but they still try real hard anyway. They live vicariously through you and everybody else, giving you the wherewithal you couldn't see in the sun. It's the kind of bad influence you could use more of. Just don't watch it changing in the end. It's embarrassing for the both of us.

I walk home in a slow drizzle debating the likeliness that I'll get jumped.