Gentleman’s Dementia
In an effort to preempt any feeling of demoralization in these hard economic times wherein I have no stable income to call my own, I spent virtually all of my “savings” on a ticket to New York City a couple weeks back. My best friend met up with me there, and we had no specific intentions for the trip other than eating a shitload of pizza.
My friend and I aren’t particularly cultured in the way of enjoying museums, but we do enjoy film and theater. We spent our late nights catching up on such timeless classics as “The Craft,” and we decided it would be a good idea to see “shows” on at least two days. We saw STOMP together one day, and my friend was interested in seeing Wicked. Considering that I had seen Wicked a few months prior in Los Angeles, and I only had a handful of dollars left to my name, I opted out, and thought I would look for a more affordable form of entertainment on Times Square that afternoon.
I had heard that sometimes you can acquire last-minute tickets to crash a Broadway show at a decent rate, so I inquired about prices at the bustling box office for Mary Poppins. I was crushed to learn that tickets were sold out, and in the event of cancellations, they would be made available for $121.50. I inquired in the box offices for other musicals as well, with similar results.
Assed out by my poverty, I ordered a slice of pizza at Famiglia and read the newspaper. I then went to a neighboring coffee shop and ordered some green tea. I sat with it for a while, but then ventured outside, freezing and restless. I had so wanted to watch something.
After a couple of minutes of strolling, cup in hand, my gaze fell upon a sign for Flash Dancers, a Gentleman’s Club. “Free Admission 12pm-5pm,” it read. I rotated my wrist, and then, remembering that I never wear a watch, reached into my purse for my phone to check the time. It was a few minutes past 3, and my friend wouldn’t be done with Wicked until at least 4:30. The sky was looking ominous with the promise of imminent precipitation, and this establishment was just beckoning me inside. I had been looking for a show, after all, and the price of a drink would sure beat whatever they were charging for Mary Poppins.
I so wanted to finish the green tea though.
“Can I bring this in?” I inquired of the doorman. Looking flummoxed, he said, “Uh, yeah, sure,” opening the door for me.
I merrily trudged down the stairs until I encountered the bouncer. Not much a fan of human interaction, I attempted to just squeeze past him, but he intercepted the effort with the query, “Can I help you?”
“Oh, just getting a drink.”
Eyeing me with a sideways smirk, he asked, “Do you know what sort of place this is?”
“Well, yeah.”
“You can’t bring that in here,” he said, pointing to me green tea as if it were a gun.
“Oh, should I –”
“I’ll take it. Are you sure you want to be here?”
“Yeah, I’m sure.”
“Hmm, OK. Corey, could you show her to a table?” he requested of a blonde dancer.
“No, it’s fine,” I insisted, “I’ll just sit at the bar.”
I took a seat at the bar, ordered myself a $14 Malibu Diet Coke, and started unraveling my topmost layers: black gloves, orange woolen cap, black coat, and scarf. I was left with a brown vest over a yellow short-sleeve shirt over a black turtleneck. It felt rather iconoclastic: a young, all-natural, fully-dressed woman staking her claim to this seat at the Gentleman’s Club with a pretty decent view of various silicone goodies.
While seated at the bar, I took it upon myself to gather the life history of the bartender. Originally from Russia, she had once been a dancer at this same bar seven years ago, before moving to Miami, getting married, and becoming a yoga instructor. Seven years later, she found herself divorced and working the bar, and she hoped to get back into yoga. A long-haired male patron then took a seat next to me with a dancer at his side, and jumped into the conversation, saying he hoped to get married some day so that he could later have an ex-wife. I agreed that sometimes it sucked to be left out when people discussed their ex-spouses. The male patron then started massaging his accompanying dancer and seemed to be genuinely sprung.
I am not one to knock escapism; after all, I spend virtually all of my waking hours watching the extravagant sights and airbrushed faces of Bollywood, and relishing in various delusions inspired by the soundtracks. Nonetheless, there was something viscerally saddening about the sight of these grown-ass men and their wistful interactions with the dancers, which held significance broader than the scope of lust — for this place was a bit more higher-end and involved mingling, not so much a place where college boys convene for homosocial masculine bonding. I’m sure many of these men had wives, girlfriends, or would-be’s, and some probably felt a genuine, three-dimensional connection with those women in their lives as well. Yet they derived some sort of validation from the illusion of young women with falsified dimensions truly desiring their company for something other than their wallets; where they did not so much as know the real names of the dancers and could idealize them to be anything they wanted.
Despite my frequent immersions in Bollywood, this quest to be surrounded by untarnished, idealized perfection in real life is not so palatable. Devocalized bodies without a backstory do nothing for me; I find myself constantly drawn to the subtle uncertainties, fears, awkwardness, and blemishes that make people human. I won’t appreciate something only so long as it is young, robust, and plastered with a smile; I’m a ride or die bitch that will see it through all the highs and lows. I chase dreams for fun, but I embrace reality for meaning. I don’t long for things that seem out of my reach; I cherish and explore those within it.
Once I got home, I slid out of my clothes and in front of the mirror, which reflected back a genuine, reliable, three-dimensional spectacle I can call upon at any time, absolutely free of charge.
