As always, there was a mixed crowd inside, the atmosphere more densely erotic than Payday's. The plurality of choices and the lack of division into exogamous camps complicated the possible scope of arrangements. In short, anybody could go home with anybody. And with little air conditioning, it was very hot.
Rolling Rocks were five dollars. The bartender, who wore a nose ring, smiled at her.
In the corner by the pool table were a group of women who looked like they belonged to the row of Harleys parked outside. They wore black leather chaps over dusty blue jeans, their collapsed helmets dangling from straps around their wrists. They were heavy on neck bands; the drivers wearing slender black leather around their necks, the backseat riders ornately studded chokers. Even with her scar, she didn't feel up to joining them.
Along the back wall was a row of venerable pinball machines. Countless generations of digital arcade machines had never completely supplanted the old mechanical games. Especially in a bar, nothing could duplicate the physical connection between the player and the encased ball. A few lipstick types leaned into the machines, or stood by, smoking cigarettes in long holders. They were all in bright dresses, high heels, and stockings. Someone's kid walked unsteadily under the pinball tables, short enough to stand upright under them. He was dressed in a little sailor's suit. One or two of the women looked intriguing, but she felt a little intimidated by all the high fashion. She stayed by the bar. The women here were dressed like her - loose pants, T-shirts and halters, baseball hats turned sideways. Everyone had a ready smile. They were free of the rough posturing being played out at the pool table or the cool composure of the lipsticks.
Before her beer was half finished, a tall Italian woman named Bonita had said hello and introduced her friends: two more women and a man called Blake. There were always two or three men here, and, like Blake, they were always safely gay. Once again, she decided her name was Lee. They were nice people, though the music was too loud to do much but stand and exchange glances. It was a kind of old-fashioned acoustic jazz. Lee's ears picked up some of what Freddie had called "surface noise," and she wondered if there was an LP player here. The music's feel was very loose, but the rhythm was undercut by a heavy-handed beat coming through the floor from the dance room below. Bonita asked Lee if she knew the club, as she didn't look familiar. Lee laughed and dodged the question with her own: "Come here often?" Bonita laughed and grasped Lee's braced hand. The contact lingered for a moment, Bonita feeling the short, alien fingers before letting go.
A onetime lover of Lee's named Kathy came past. Lee smiled and waved. Kathy waved back. Lack of recognition was no problem for Kathy; she'd forgotten more lovers than most people remembered. The others knew Kathy too. Everyone did.
The music changed downstairs, and they all wanted to dance.
At each step down, the air thickened. It was more crowded here. To the left was a sunken pool, about four meters to a side. Usually it was empty of water, but tonight it had been filled. She paused at the rail. Two dark-haired women, one with eyeglasses on, embraced in the meter-deep water. The heady vapors of heated chlorine caught her breath. A large, shirtless woman splashed into the pool, and a small wave splashed over Lee's sneakers. She rejoined her new friends and danced, keeping her eye on the stairs in case Kathy came down.
Bonita smiled at her again and split their dance off from the group, standing a few centimeters closer to make it private. Her eyes were light green, an uncanny color that was probably contact lenses. Her neck was long and thin, her hair cut short as if to show it off. She caught Lee's stare and posed for her a few beats, neck arched seductively, eyes closed, lips pouting, and then laughed. Lee reached for her hand and returned the squeeze. Bonita was prettier than the sort of person she normally liked, but her broad shoulders and muscular arms had caught Lee's eye. The taut skin across Bonita's collar bone revealed sharply defined sternal muscles, and the ridge of her spine was sensuously apparent through her tight black T-shirt. Lee idly wondered what Bonita would look like with the shirt off.
Kathy appeared and said, "Have you seen the pool? It's filled again."
Lee answered, "Pompeii."
Kathy said something about either license or a license. The three of them danced.
The music here was less sophisticated than the dancebeat at Payday. It followed a formula as old as the drum machine: a cavernous bass drum on one and three, a snare like a car door slam on two and four, the shuffle of a tight high hat struck four times every beat. As music, it was as good-natured as the crowd, as free of pretense as Payday was drenched in it. It was music so simple and literal that anyone could dance to it, and everyone did.
They were soon all glistening with sweat. Bonita was very fit, the energy in her step unwavering. Lee was starting to tire when a few seconds of brownout, common in the summer, briefly interrupted the music. Kathy stopped dancing and headed down a hallway toward another room. Lee followed her, Bonita close behind.
The space had been changed since the Monday before. There was the new-paint smell of recent construction! Small doors with coin locks lining the tight hallway. Lee assumed they led to back rooms - small, dark closets for private encounters.
In the far room, which had another bar, an air conditioner labored with a heavy whine. A fire exit leading up to the street, propped open to let in the cooling night air, was much more effective. Lee was drenched with sweat. She fanned the hem of her shirt, and the cold air rushed up and hit her chest like a cool shower. She was glad she'd worn the Mets shirt instead of evening clothes.
A tall blond woman with a seat at the bar bought Kathy a White Russian. The woman's friends were all drinking White Russians. The press of bodies in the hall muted the music from the dance room, and it was quiet enough to talk. Introductions were exchanged. The tall woman and her friends were from New Orleans. They were flying back tonight, working tomorrow. It was their first time in New York, and they were eager to compare it to their native city. They talked about the gay scene in New Orleans, the secrecy of their clubs and the danger of being bashed. The tall woman made a comment about the political maturity of the New York lesbian scene, and Bonita laughed out loud. Lee leaned against her and signaled for two more beers. Kathy talked about a trip she'd taken to New Orleans in the nineties, and though Kathy rarely exaggerated her tales of sexual conquest, the New Orleanois' eyes widened.
Lee felt a kinship with Kathy that was hard to explain. Kathy's promiscuity was so profound and casual that Lee was certain she understood the aesthetic of anonymity. Kathy was so lax, so easy in her sexual friendships that there was something polymorphous about her. Kathy never changed, of course, but her oblivious forgetfufness seemed constantly to reinvent the world for her. The New Orleanois were being won over quickly. The tall woman bought Kathy another White Russian and started calling her cher with a softly southern lilt. Kathy's tale continued, and intensified. Lee exchanged a smiling glance with Bonita.