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Jake Chronicles: Part Seven/4/28/15

In My Stories, The 80's on April 28, 2015 at 9:59 am

Part #7

 

About this time, Jess comes back around taking the stairs two at a time. I stand up and tilt my head to the side, make a silly face and wave to catch his eye. He’s the most interesting person I can hang with for the rest of the night because drama and laughter follow Jess- nipping at his heels,always unpredictable. This is convenient, as I’m willing time to pass as fast as possible until tomorrow. If I could fast forward I’d be holding down the button.

He makes a beeline over, and we exchange hugs and smiles authentically without Jake’s chemistry throwing it off. As I’m pulling away from him, I feel him gripping me tighter, and it’s odd and pushy until I realize he’s trying to put something discreetly into my hand.

“You dummy!” he says. “TAKE THIS!!”

I suddenly realize it’s his precious amber bullet, and  I grab it quickly- in one motion tossing it into my purse, which is in front of me on the table.

“Leave me some!” he mouths as he walks away. It’s the least I can do.

Twisted Sister takes to the stage again. Colored spotlights- red, orange, blue, and green, frantically dance across the deep brown ceilings of the cabin-like club, as Dee Snider’s guttural growl once again pierces the sound system. The crowd cheers, while I down half my drink, then head to the Ladies Room. Inside, heavily made up girls in their Thursday best are standing in front of cracked mirrors, spraying their teased hair with mini-bottles of Final Net and Paul Mitchell. Others apply eyeliner unsteadily, the water running in the dirty sinks as they yap back and forth over the thudding bass line outside. Graffiti covers the walls (phone numbers, band adoration, ‘disco sucks’)  There is a sense of urgency, everyone in rush mode to get out and see the band.

I walk straight into an empty stall, and assess the toilet seat. Disgusting. I rip toilet paper off in waves in order to clean the seat off. I know I’m just smearing germs into it, but sue me if I don’t want to sit in pools of urine. Luckily for me there’s any paper in the stall to begin with. (I am also blessed in that I am not a germ phobe. I figure it takes a lot more than a few drops of urine to kill a healthy human being, and have faith I will die of something much more severe than the bathroom at the Night Raven. Though, looking around, I can’t say for sure it couldn’t happen.)

After checking the loose, clunky silver lock on the door (about to fall off) I pull out the bullet, release a serving, and sniff it up with minimal fanfare. I try to be discreet, unlike a lot of people who snort like swine, making awful noises with no regard for anyone- and ruin it for the rest of us. Club owners are required to follow the letter of the law when it comes to serving alcohol, and drugs -from coke to marijuana, complicates things. But it’s 1980,and coke is everywhere. It’s on Wall Street, in discos, rock clubs, at concerts, at parties- and even touted as an effective tool  for weight loss. It’s reputation in the late 70’s and early 80’s is that of a ‘fun’, somewhat lighthearted substance. You can buy t-shirts that celebrate cocaine, jewelry that doubles as coke-paraphernalia, even postcards depicting coke use at mom & pop convenience stores. When it’s mentioned  it’s with a wink and a smile. The mood would turn ugly, but that was still ahead of us.

Almost instantly, as I snort the white  powder, my already decent mood ascends into the night sky ….isn’t life just fucking great? I take another sniff, and am instantly enveloped inside the familiar, fantastic feeling of good will and energy. It spreads warmly across my chest, upper arms and legs- and a better mood I could not be in. I think of Jake, and Jess, and the almost magical way the night has unfolded.

I put the bullet back in my purse, and slide back the lock on the door, walking over to the middle sink. I wet my hands (washing would be an exaggeration) and when I look at my image in the cracked mirror I like what I see, which attests to my sense of well-being. The scent of hairspray and impostor perfume hangs in the air. I rip a big piece of brown paper off of the metal dispenser mounted on the wall, and quickly wipe my hands with the scratchy paper, stuffing it gingerly  atop the over-flowing trash can like a crown. I step out into the fray just as Twisted’s singer Dee is crucifying some preppy in the audience for wearing a polo shirt. The audience eats it up, working themselves into a fervor like they’ll soon be witness to a yuppie crucifixion. This happens every time Twisted plays, and I suddenly realize, with distinct clarity and disappointment, that it’s a gimmick.  The guy in the polo is probably one of the road crew. Besides, what preppy would be at the Raven for Twisted Sister, unless they lost a bet? That’s what Fern Bars are for! And how could it possibly be that every Thursday, one night a month when Twisted Sister plays some unsuspecting preppy mistakes the  Night Raven for a college pub? I mean- come on. Obviously I’ve been duped. I head back to our table on the second floor to excitedly discuss my new found theory  with Jess.

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