Wherever She Goes(35)

Buy clothing. Buy makeup. Buy pins and styling products for my hair. Find a mall restroom and transform from suburban mommy into . . . well, suburban-mommy-goes-clubbing. That’s still what I see when I look in the mirror. At least all the component parts are there—the hair, makeup, short dress and heels—and if I look like a young single mommy on the make, oh well. I’m sure I won’t be the only one there tonight.

I arrive at the club just after eleven, which I seem to recall is a good time, not too early but not hard-partier late. What I’ve forgotten after three years of stay-at-home-mommy life is that you don’t just show up to a club and walk in. There’s a line. A massive one that isn’t moving because, duh, it’s the grand opening.

I also realize, as I’m getting out of the cab, that I’m alone. Of course I am—I’m on a mission. But I have enough ego to be very aware of how I look, a thirty-year-old going to a club by herself. So as I’m trying to figure out my next move, I stand at the head of the line, pretending to scan it for my friends.

“Hey, Blue Dress,” someone behind me says.

I keep searching the line, wondering what my chances are of sneaking in a back entrance, when the guy calls again, and I realize I’m wearing a blue dress.

I turn to see one of the bouncers waving me over. He’s midforties, bald, steroid-pumped. I wonder what I’m doing wrong, maybe breaking some rule about hanging out too close to the doors.

“You look like you know your way around a gym,” he says, as I walk over.

“Uh . . . yes . . .”

“You should try Bart’s.”

“I . . . don’t think I know that one.”

“It’s very exclusive. Here.” He takes a Sharpie from his co-bouncer’s pocket and motions for my hand. I give it to him. He writes “Bart,” and then what I think is an address, but when I look, I realize it’s a phone number. It actually takes about five seconds for me to realize he’s Bart, and this is his cell, and there is no gym.

Yes, I’ve been married for a while.

“I might . . . check that out,” I manage to say, as my brain struggles to ignite my rusty flirting skills and use them to get into this bar. “Thank you.”

“No problem. And your friends? They’re inside. They said to watch for you.” He winks. “Hot brunette with a blue dress and biceps. That’s gotta be you, right?”

“Yes . . . Yes, it is. Thank you.”

He opens the door. Again, it takes a few seconds for me to realize I don’t coincidentally fit the description of an actual “friend” someone’s waiting for. He’s letting me in ahead of the line, in hopes I might actually call his number. If not, well, a party can always use more single women. Maybe I don’t look as mom-ish as I feel. Or maybe the bouncer just decided to shake things up for variety.

Inside, the club is packed, as one might expect from that line. If I felt old walking up, I feel ancient now. It’s loud. So freaking loud. And it stinks—perfume and aftershave and BO mingling together. Then there are the lights, colored strobes and mirror balls.

I stare at the mirror balls before remembering that’s the theme of Zima’s clubs: faux seventies. Mirror balls. Caged go-go dancers. Disco songs that have been remixed because the illusion of the seventies is all well and fine, but please don’t make us listen to the music.

Outside, I’d been worried about how I’d fit in without friends. Now I laugh at that. Even if I had friends in here, I’d lose them in three seconds. No one’s going to notice that I’m alone.

I make my way to the bar. When I get past the mob hanging out there, I lean over the bar and say, “Dark and stormy, please.”

The bartender hesitates.

“It’s rum and—” I begin.

“Oh, believe me, I know how to make it. I’ve made so many that I’m out of ginger beer.”

I must look surprised, because he chuckles, “Haven’t been clubbing in a while, huh?”

“Evidently not. I guess it was just a matter of time before my drink actually became popular. Now I’ll have to find a new one.”

“Hipster,” he says, and I laugh at that, and he promises to make me “something special.”

We chat a bit. Nothing flirtatious. He’s wearing a wedding band and seems happy to spend a few moments talking to someone who isn’t checking him out.

When I go to pay, a guy behind me leans over and says, “I’ll pay . . .”

He stops as he gets a look at me. Apparently, I look younger from the back. Or hotter. When he sees me, he withdraws the twenty in his hand and mumbles something as he turns to talk to his friends.

“Asshole,” the bartender says. “This one’s on me.”

I shake my head and give him a twenty and a “keep the change.” Then I slide away, smiling to myself. I’ll admit to an ego bump when the bouncer let me in, and apparently the universe decided that needed straightening out, with the put-down at the bar. The thought puts me in a better mood than it should, and I’m wandering, sipping my drink, lost in my thoughts when I spot Denis Zima.

That’s no coincidence. Zima is there to be seen, as much as those caged go-go dancers. Along one side of the room there are box seats, like those you find in old theaters, except these are raised just enough that the plebes on the dance floor can’t stumble into them. In the biggest box seat, Zima sits in an oversized throne-like chair, surveying his club while others in his box try—and fail—to catch his attention.