It's Wednesday night in February and I'm dying for a cigarette. The coat check girl has been talking at me for the last 10 seconds, but "6 God" came on as soon as she opened her mouth, so I haven't heard a single word. "BANGERRRRRRR," I yell, making praying hands at the DJ. No one around me is paying attention. This dude does a good job at these brand parties. I've seen him out here for years. Fuck is his name?
"I SAID, I HAVE TO GET YOUR TICKET! DO YOU HAVE IT?" Oh right. Coat shit. Cigarette shit. She'd actually be pretty cute if she wasn't rocking bitch face at me from inside a closet full of wack outerwear. I grin widely, working the charm.
"I just had it!" I'm telling her. "It fell out of my pocket over there!" I'm pointing vaguely to the other side of the studio, where I was Instagramming things for Paige. I'm not sure if it's true, but who cares? "I promise I won't steal a struggle snorkel," I explain, laughing broadly.
Her made-up face is clammy with sweat and offers little reaction. "I'M NOT ALLOWED TO!" She's yelling at me again. "I CAN'T!" I'm about to just push by her, but I trip and fall into her table. The crowd, all at once sensing that my time is up, presses against me en masse. I'm borne off by a current of bodies holding free cocktails in plastic cups. I go with the flow and wind up back in the middle of the event, kind of tight, but also fine with it. Paige will get this sorted. Then I'll get a cigarette. On my way to the open bar, I realize I've got a vape pen in my back pocket. I'm not sure what's in it. Close enough.
The bartender looks like this part-time guy from Freeman's that I used to party with, but it's not him. What was that guy's name? When the bartender finally glances towards me, I'm in the middle of a drag and he gives me a weird look. I finish the hit anyway and ask for a vodka rocks and a beer. He leans across the table.
"I'm only supposed to do one drink per, bud."
"But the vodka is for my girl! She's in the bathroom."
He stands back, sizing me up. I can tell he doesn't want to give me what I ordered. "Dude, it's fine," I assure him. "Her name is Paige! She's running this whole event!" His face is still uncertain, but after a moment he decides it's not worth the trouble, hands me a Heineken and starts pouring clear liquor into a clear cup.
I've already turned my back and downed the mixed drink before I remember that I left my vaporizer on the bar. Whatever. They'll send me another. Ferg's voice is barking "Work" from the speakers and the crowd is turning up, full of bouncing faces screwed into masks of effort. Smiling to myself, I upend my Heineken and lurch off into the abyss to find Paige. I'm halfway through the crowd when, eyes focused on my skyward beer bottle, I run straight into something. A waiter is sprawled in front of me, his appetizer tray strewn all over ground beside him.
"C'mon, man!" The waiter is on the floor and pissed off. I go to help him up, but I'm off-balance and fall down next to him. I am the life of this party.
"Look out!" I'm cracking up. "Someone Instagram me down here with fam!" I throw my arm around the guy and reach for my phone with my other hand. When I turn back, there's a red stain spreading across the crisp white sleeve of his uniform. Ketchup from his tray, probably. I'm dying laughing and looking for someone who will take my phone to snap a photo of me and this fucking waiter covered in ketchup on the floor at Paige's event.
"Yo! YO! You're fucking bleeding dude! Get off me!" The waiter is scrambling away from me now, his sleeve now totally crimson and I don't understand what he's talking about until I see the light glinting off the shards of Heineken bottle embedded in my palm. I'm cackling like a guy who built a brand out of a Tumblr dashboard, who's been to a thousand brand parties that were a thousand times better than this. Who can't be stopped by a flesh wound. Who hasn't a care in the world. I am the life of every party.
I don't know how long she's been standing behind me. I don’t know how long I've been here, or how long I've been coming to her parties. I do remember the first time I met her.
Another waiter hands me a dishrag for my hand and helps his coworker up. I pull myself into a sitting position and start picking the bottle out of my palm. It barely hurts and I'm still laughing. People surge around the bloodied bon vivant on the ground. For a moment, I recognize them, but then their bobbing faces get nearer and I don't. Who are these kids? Paige has been inviting me to events for years. I know everyone in the scene. I cut the surgery short, hop up and make for the back bar. The crowd is thick and it's harder than ever to slip through, but I eventually cover the ground.
"If there's ever been a time for a drink, it's now," I say, smiling gamely to the girl behind the bar and nodding at my hand. My breath is short and hard, like I ran here from across town. I wonder idly if I had. How DID I get to this bar?
"Sir, are you OK? What happened?"
"Do you know Paige? She's my sister…it's her event…some dude was harassing her and…" I trail off, worried more about the bartender's reaction to my story than actually finishing it. She seems sympathetic. "Can I have a couple vodka tonics?"
"Uh, I…"
"I know, I know. One per person. But can you j—"
The bartender's eyes look past me, then flick downard. A new voice cuts in from the place where she was looking and I turn around to greet it.
"What are you doing here?" It's Paige. I don't know how long she's been standing behind me. I don’t know how long I've been here, or how long I've been coming to her parties. I do remember the first time I met her. It was at another brand party at another event space (the whole city, the whole world is full of brand parties, all exactly the same) and I was there because everyone needed me there, Paige most of all.
"What are you doing here, Michael?" Her voice is harder now, narrow and probing. I look to the bartender, hoping for even a single vodka, but she's miles away from us at the other end of the bar. What a shitshow. My stomach churns and I wonder what time I started drinking today. The room is crawling. Over Paige's shoulder, the faces are bouncing faster than before.
"I wanted a smoke, but they wouldn't let me…" There's a new song playing that I don't recognize. The unfamiliar bass drowns out my words and, for the first time tonight, I wish this fucking DJ would turn the music down. Fuck is his name?
"The waiter ran into me over there and I fell." I reach for my phone to show her the Instagram, but it's not in my pocket. When I look back up, Paige's face is bobbing up and down too. "I need a drink, but she won't give me..."
I'm on the floor again and I don't know how I got there. Paige is looking down at me from a great height. She looks so sad. I laugh to show her it's no big deal. As I try to get up, my arms give out, so I laugh harder. Her face is floating on the current of bodies holding free cocktails and I am deep beneath the surface. My hand is throbbing and my stomach is churning. When did I start drinking? I laugh harder and harder until the faces have all run together and drifted past. And then I start to cry.
Dave Infante is a writer living in New York City. Read more of his work on Thrillist and follow him on Twitter here.
