A bouncer in a high collared black jacket holds a huge green and very noisy canvas umbrella over her as she checks her sheet of names. Her pen is sparkly. She waves to Estelle… plus one.
I am the coolest person alive.
Inside: how you would imagine a place called Moss would look. It’s huge, crowded, humid, posh. The floor lights up in certain sections, illuminating chlorophyll green video screens of 1950’s classics and 70’s slasher horror flicks. The walls are strong, cartoon sculpted plaster—jagged and tree like. All are colored burgundy or a gruesome teal. DJ Ynk (I think pronounced Ink) is spinning some Ladytron, Madonna, other 80’s classics and urban industrial bands that are so obscure and new that there can’t be more than five people in total who’ve heard of them.
I have two lines of coke (my third time trying it) and a Slam City (two parts currant vodka, one part diet coke, one part sparkling wine, stirred and poured over ice) in my blood and the combination is making me feeling at once both confident and reclusive. The music is distracting me from the movies playing on the dance floor. I realize never did see all of Texas Chainsaw Massacre and I’m feeling intent on catching up on it now.
Estelle is talking to Berlin, whom I’ve met before and she smiles politely at me but doesn’t know who I am or why I’m here. She gives Estelle more coke. Pretending that we’re all European, they do that stupid cheek kiss thing and seeing this, I bite down on the inside of my own. My teeth are numb and I start looking for some gum in my bag. Only mints…no good. All these types are Estelle’s friends and I guess I’m just her shadow. I have no idea even why I’m here.
Why am I here?
I have always slightly detested Estelle. She’s one of those people who believe it’s completely appropriate if she tells you exactly what to do and how to behave.