Expedition Journal of the First Man Who Wasn’t on the List to
Successfully Get
into that Hot New Club Downtown
8:15 PM: I awaken from my “disco nap” feeling refreshed and ready to begin preparations.
8:20 PM: Not knowing when I’ll next have access to clean drinking water, I fill a bottle and force myself to chug it. The water hitting my empty stomach reminds me that I have not eaten dinner, but I accept the rumbling as a totem of my hunger to succeed. It will drive me through any obstacle tonight. It will get me into the club. I need this hunger.
8:22 PM: I eat a Clif Mojo bar. I’m still a little hungry, though, so all of the above still applies.
8:25 PM: I floss until my gums bleed, then set my Sonicare to “pot scrubber.” When I am done, there is no trace of the Clif Mojo bar. There is no trace of anything I have ever eaten in my life. My teeth are 32 blank slates on which new adventures will soon be written.
8:40 PM: Shower. I do to my body what I did to my teeth. I will have to throw the washcloth away, I think.
9:00 PM: Time to gear up. I give thanks to whatever higher power gave Zappos the higher power to get these raw denim jeans to me overnight. They are stiff and strong, like social armor for my lower body. As I pull on a pre-distressed, “vintage” Ramones t-shirt and confirm that it is similar to one from my Pinterest board, Cool People in Clubs (private), I take a moment to think about the ones I am leaving behind: the bros and dudes who are content to spend their nights bar-crawling the well-worn trails of the Upper West Side. Tonight I will party in the thin air that they will never breathe, and I will carry with me their undreamt dreams. Also some gum, lip balm and a condom.
9:25 PM: I grab my motorcycle jacket and motorcycle boots, neither of which will
ever be on a motorcycle, but tonight that is my secret from the City.
9:28 PM: My right boot hits the sidewalk – a small step for a man, a giant leap for that same man, whose recent mole removal (benign) reminded him that he only will only live once, so why can’t that life be special and maybe spent with obscure European royalty? It can. It will. Let’s do this.
9:38 PM: On the train downtown, I check Maps and my chest tightens as I realize that Varick doesn’t cross Hester. Like, at all. This has been a small but perhaps critical oversight in my planning. I get out at Varick and Canal and make my way up the urine-soaked stairs to street level. I know that Everest is downtown, and that is where I am. I shall walk until I find it.
10:10 PM: Eating a slice of pizza. Have been walking for 30 minutes, and need to replenish my carbohydrates. Also, I now understand why they are called “motorcycle boots” and not “walking around boots.” While I apply an icy cold can of soda to my feet, I Google image search “Everest” and, predictably, find a lot of pictures of the mountain. Next I try “club Everest” and get more mountain pictures, plus an Ecuadoran soccer team. I pound the table, startling a nearby pigeon. Then I try “club Everest New York” and retrieve a piece of promising data: a photo of Sean Lennon leaving Everest just last week. I enlarge the photo and study the background for clues as to its location, but it’s hard to make out any details in the glare of the Chinese writing on all of the buildings.
10:20 PM: On a hunch, I am walking towards Chinatown. I have jammed pizza napkins in my boots for extra cushioning, and I am wondering – as I often have – whether, on balance, Sean Lennon is lucky. I mean, on the one hand, his dad died tragically when he was little. But on the other, he’s really rich and famous even though he doesn’t seem to do anything. Would he trade the fame and money to have, like, a regular alive dad? I think he would. The blocks slide past...
9:28 PM: My right boot hits the sidewalk – a small step for a man, a giant leap for that same man, whose recent mole removal (benign) reminded him that he only will only live once, so why can’t that life be special and maybe spent with obscure European royalty? It can. It will. Let’s do this.
9:38 PM: On the train downtown, I check Maps and my chest tightens as I realize that Varick doesn’t cross Hester. Like, at all. This has been a small but perhaps critical oversight in my planning. I get out at Varick and Canal and make my way up the urine-soaked stairs to street level. I know that Everest is downtown, and that is where I am. I shall walk until I find it.
10:10 PM: Eating a slice of pizza. Have been walking for 30 minutes, and need to replenish my carbohydrates. Also, I now understand why they are called “motorcycle boots” and not “walking around boots.” While I apply an icy cold can of soda to my feet, I Google image search “Everest” and, predictably, find a lot of pictures of the mountain. Next I try “club Everest” and get more mountain pictures, plus an Ecuadoran soccer team. I pound the table, startling a nearby pigeon. Then I try “club Everest New York” and retrieve a piece of promising data: a photo of Sean Lennon leaving Everest just last week. I enlarge the photo and study the background for clues as to its location, but it’s hard to make out any details in the glare of the Chinese writing on all of the buildings.
10:20 PM: On a hunch, I am walking towards Chinatown. I have jammed pizza napkins in my boots for extra cushioning, and I am wondering – as I often have – whether, on balance, Sean Lennon is lucky. I mean, on the one hand, his dad died tragically when he was little. But on the other, he’s really rich and famous even though he doesn’t seem to do anything. Would he trade the fame and money to have, like, a regular alive dad? I think he would. The blocks slide past...
11:00 PM: I believe I have found Everest! Stumbled upon a long line of very hip-looking people snaking out of an unmarked storefront. I slide into the line and shuffle forward with the rest, allowing myself a moment to smile at the adventure I am about to have and wondering if, by the end of it, any of these strangers will have become friends.
11:08 PM: It was a cronut bakery. I ate two and was able to replace the blood- soaked pizza napkins in my boots with clean cronut paper towels. Walking again.
11:09 PM: It’s getting late, and as the raw denim does a cheese grater thing to my inner thighs I am aware that I am redlining on my ability to dance tonight. Desperate, I Google “club Everest New York address” and discover, immediately, that I have been within two blocks of the club for the past forty minutes. I now know what it is to feel exactly happy and sad.
11:20 PM: This is it. Clusters of girls in short skirts and guys in tight shirts. The low throb of bass behind a tinted door. I am so close! And yet here is the most dangerous part of my journey, for I must traverse the red velvet rope, which is guarded by a headset-wearing giant who holds a list – a list that I am not on. How to make my approach? The choice is critical.
11:21 PM: I walk straight up and tell him I’m on the list. It’s a high-risk play, and the feeling is dizzying. When he says he can’t find my name, I act very “annoyed.” Uch, I hate it when this happens, which it rarely does, because I am always on lists is what I indicate with my eyebrows as I ask him to check the list again. He does and (of course) still can’t find my name. So...we’ve reached a decision point for you is what I indicate with a shrug. I am a guy who gets in is what I indicate with my motorcycle jacket and boots and Ramones t-shirt and raw denim jeans. I am a guy who gets in.
11:22 PM: I have not gotten in. The door guy said it was “list only,” so I have retreated to a base camp on the opposite corner, where I am pretending to text Sean Lennon and indicating frustration at this unexpected delay.
11:28 PM: Another opportunity presents itself: a group of five girls and two guys, moving with purpose towards the velvet rope. They look like list people. I must act quickly.
11:30 PM: Back at base camp. I attempted to walk in with the group, but the door guy blocked me and asked them, “Is he with you?” They turned, and I smiled at them -- a smile that clearly explained I’m supposed to be in there, too, but there’s been some sort of misunderstanding. If it were me on the list and you trying to get in, I would totally hook you up. “No,” said one of them. “He’s not.” Then they disappeared inside. I am now fake-texting again.
11:42 PM: I attempt another head-on assault. Taking advantage of a lull outside the club, I sidle up to the rope, my body language indicating submission and camaraderie. We are
both working men, I want the door guy to understand. We spend our lives serving at
the whim of others, enforcing rules that we didn’t write and may not even agree with. I
attempt to make small talk – “Crazy here, huh? It never lets up for you” – so that he
knows I see him as more than just a means to an end, a rope-lifter. I am not a guy who gets in, I indicate with my foot as it stubs
out an imaginary cigarette. I’m sorry I lied to you about that earlier, with that shrug
thing. It was wrong of me, and I understand why you turned me away, because in that
moment I was just like all the others – the jaded, spoiled “list people,” the ones who
barely look at you as they strut past, night after night. Well I won’t be here night after
night. This is my one night: that is my truth, and I put it in your
hands, to do with as you like. Brother.
11:43 PM: What a fucking dick. Johnny Steroid on his little power trip. So how’s it work? You finish your shift at Wendy’s and just keep the headset on? This is what I indicate as I do a pull-up under some construction scaffolding on the adjacent corner at Base Camp Two. I wish the motorcycle jacket was made of a more breathable fabric. I think I am getting dangerously dehydrated.
12:07 AM: Attempt to bribe door guy. It goes poorly.
12:25 AM: Have given up. I am tired and hungry and thirsty and humiliated, and I will need help pulling these boots off my swollen, bloody feet. But first I will go uptown to Ryan’s Ale House and drink Funky Monkey pilsner until I throw up on the foosball table.
12:25 AM (addendum): The most beautiful woman in the world is walking towards me. Each of her parts is like the dictionary entry for what that part should look like. My broken mind struggles to figure out how to indicate that I belong on the same planet as her. I see a Ducati motorcycle parked in the street and think, finally, Thank God for this motorcycle jacket and boots. I swing a leg over and straddle the bike, as if it is mine. I believe she glances at me as she walks past. I’m not sure because I’m looking away, into a vague middle distance, like a man who cannot be tamed. After she has passed, I hear a voice, clear and strong in the night: “HEY! WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING ON MY BIKE?!”
12:26 AM: The Ducati owner has me cornered at Base Camp Two. Startled by his voice, I tried to get off the motorcycle, but my chafed thighs and battered stump of a foot failed to clear the seat. So, basically, I kicked his bike over. There is nowhere to run – and, really, no physical ability for me to run at this point. The only thing left to do is stand and fight.
12:31 AM: I am tasting my own blood. I was, I think, expecting a little more circling and taunting before the punching started. Now, Ducati guy is gone, and Ryan’s Ale House feels very, very far away. I think I just need to close my eyes for a bit...
12:38 AM: Awakened by the door guy shaking my shoulder. He asks if I’m okay and if he can help me – maybe call me a cab? I look at him through my non-swollen eye. “You can let me in,” I croak through split lips. He smiles a little. Brother.
12:07 AM: Attempt to bribe door guy. It goes poorly.
12:25 AM: Have given up. I am tired and hungry and thirsty and humiliated, and I will need help pulling these boots off my swollen, bloody feet. But first I will go uptown to Ryan’s Ale House and drink Funky Monkey pilsner until I throw up on the foosball table.
12:25 AM (addendum): The most beautiful woman in the world is walking towards me. Each of her parts is like the dictionary entry for what that part should look like. My broken mind struggles to figure out how to indicate that I belong on the same planet as her. I see a Ducati motorcycle parked in the street and think, finally, Thank God for this motorcycle jacket and boots. I swing a leg over and straddle the bike, as if it is mine. I believe she glances at me as she walks past. I’m not sure because I’m looking away, into a vague middle distance, like a man who cannot be tamed. After she has passed, I hear a voice, clear and strong in the night: “HEY! WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING ON MY BIKE?!”
12:26 AM: The Ducati owner has me cornered at Base Camp Two. Startled by his voice, I tried to get off the motorcycle, but my chafed thighs and battered stump of a foot failed to clear the seat. So, basically, I kicked his bike over. There is nowhere to run – and, really, no physical ability for me to run at this point. The only thing left to do is stand and fight.
12:31 AM: I am tasting my own blood. I was, I think, expecting a little more circling and taunting before the punching started. Now, Ducati guy is gone, and Ryan’s Ale House feels very, very far away. I think I just need to close my eyes for a bit...
12:38 AM: Awakened by the door guy shaking my shoulder. He asks if I’m okay and if he can help me – maybe call me a cab? I look at him through my non-swollen eye. “You can let me in,” I croak through split lips. He smiles a little. Brother.
12:39 AM: The door guy has helped me across the street. He lifts the red velvet rope for me – for me! – and invites me in. He also tells me I should ask for David at the bar, because David can give me some ice wrapped in a towel. I give him a nod, indicating thank you thank you thank you thank you. I walk through the door.
12:40 AM: Dear God it’s more beautiful than I –
End of journal.
Adapted from "Everest 2013 Expedition Journal," originally published in Shouts & Murmurs, NewYorker.com, July 9, 2013
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