Run like the devil is hot on your tail--red hot. Run home, away from the droning, insanity inducing job at the theatre. Run to your brother, Adrian, and run to a fun night out of dancing.
A fast paced life with no breaks; I know this hustle and grind all too well. School, work, party, write, read. Lather, rinse, repeat.
Sometimes I stay up at night: four in the morning, just tossing and turning, and unable to remain tranquil enough to get some quality shut eye. MY brain does not have an off and on switch. My spine does not have a USB port where my memory stick can be easily ejected. No, my mind prefers to stay awake and continues to evolve. It is beyond my control at times.
I am caught in hectic life that thrives on prefect balance: work and play- light and dark. It’s better now while I’m young.
A typical Thursday night: count up the cash, turn off the flat screen T.V’s in the lobby. Place the walkie-talkie on the charger. I run through a mental checklist before I finally make my great escape from the transparent fishbowl, the box office. I am done helping patrons decide which movie to see, done selling tickets, and done with my shift. This transaction is complete; now my night can really begin.
Jetting down flights of stairs from the third level of the Denver Pavilions, I decide to take the back alleyways to get home with maximum efficiency; harsh winds blow my jet black hair into deranged angles atop my head, ala’ Andy Warhol. I am starting to break a sweat two-songs-on-my-iPod-later when I arrive to my studio apartment.
I shed all the regalia of my uniform onto my hardwood floors and opt for jeans and a T shirt. I comb through my thicket of hair, slicked back and polished.
My brother Adrian calls me: “Hey I’m on my way. I’ll see you in ten minutes.”
I buzz my brother into my apartment building 15 minutes later as the clock strikes midnight.
“So the club is having auditions for dancers in a couple of weeks; I just want to go briefly to scope out the scene and size up the current dancers,” my brother explains.
“I see. Well, what time should we get there? Don’t they close around one?”
“Yeah they do, but I am not in a rush to get there.”
“Cool. Let’s just go when we finish our drinks then.”
We arrive to the club with no long line to wait in, and we wonder if they even allow people in at one o’clock? It turns out that they do, only after staring at your ID, your face, and consulting a long list of names that have been banned from the premises. Luckily, my brother and I are not on that list, and we walk up to the dude that collects our cover payment. “You guys are all taken care of. Have a good time” this worker tells us as he nods towards his boss. “Enjoy.”
We walk around the entire club, before committing to a location. There are lots of people here. Some act like enraged hyenas, while others stand in the shadows against the wall. Tired faces from high school and other various locales stop to chat with me and my bro, a quick “Hi! It’s so nice to see you!” and then vanish.
This intellectual black-hole reeks of perfume and lies. I tell myself this as we glide our way to the dance floor, cutting through a packed house of sweaty limbs swaying and clanging as “Bad Romance” blares from speakers. Intoxicated sinners all grind to the thumping beat. My brother and I rate the dancers, who are scantily clad in lime green vinyl, and then we just have to laugh because my brother has nothing to worry about for his audition.
The spontaneous spirit of the evening reminds me of how free I am; how I can make my own decisions and sometimes have my cake and eat it too. I can go to school, work, and still go out. Another day, another dream: lather, rinse, repeat.
