Just Last Night

I initially screw up in my walk from 222 Club to the after hours party. I do the walk down Hyde, across Market and down Mission to Ninth.

I come into the place after passing a weird collection of guys outside, smoking what smells like cloves in silence.

There are all these vaguely effeminate yet intense guys lingering around the dimly lit lobby area. No one seems to be taking money or giving out hand stamps. These guys are all sort of milling about with a kind of undefined anticipation, giving me and each other the eye. Very little conversation is happening.

I'm like, "Huh... weird crowd."

So I go in further, looking here and there, peering through the velvet curtain on my left into the long and narrow main room. I don't hear any music at all. There are a bunch of flabby women in bondage gear lounging around on couches, which are placed around the perimeter of the room. Polished cement floors, a bar in the way back.

I'm getting a little confused now, so I approach one of the girlie creeps. Eyeliner applied subtly, velvet blazer, wan concerned smile as he tries to figure out who the hell I am and what I'm doing at his party.

He holds out a flyer to me as I turn away from the main room and back into the lobby, slowly moving toward the front door. He robotically begins his monotone mantra, "Thank you. Please be sure to come back again next time".

Then he gets a good look at me and at the blurry and confused look on my face. I'm obviously a little sauced up. He pulls his extended arm, the one holding the flyer, back toward his body in a mildly alarmed slow motion, his face crumpling slightly.

He says, "Do you know where you are? I'm not sure you're in the right place."

"Is this the DJ party? I'm looking for the DJ party..."

"This most assuredly is not the DJ party. You must be lost."

"Dammit..." I mutter, turning my head away from him, having one more good look around. Yeah, this ain't it. What the fuck.

"Sorry..." he says, his voice drifting off.

I smile as I inch past him on my way to the front door. He smiles back. And I say, as I snatch the flyer from his hand, "But I'll still take a flyer".

He straightens up. A small thrill seems to run through him. He is pleased and excited that I might be back, or so it seems in the moment.

I bounce out, realizing what a directional idiot I've been. Gawd, I must be drunk.

I'm on Ninth and Mission. The party is supposed to be on Ninth and Folsom.

I bop on, rounding the corner onto Ninth, laughing to myself and singing an Amy Winehouse song.

"What kind of fuckery is this..." I sing as I truck on down the cracked and dirty sidewalk.

Ninth and Folsom, Ninth and Folsom. Ninth and Folsom. Ninth and Folsom. I still have that flyer in my pocket.

And as I enter the party, I still haven't read it.