The invitation said black tie optional; I must have missed the line that said underwear optional. The guy standing next to me at the bar was wearing jeans with so many holes he looked like a pornographic Advent calendar. The woman behind him, wore no blouse, no T-shirt, no halter, just a black sport bra that was so tight it mushed her breasts into rectangles.
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But I was at the Limelight’s third anniversary bash. The music was pumping so loud that you had to be a lip-reader to conduct a conversation. If you wanted to use the toilet, you had to squirm your way past thrashing couples dancing to a rhythm that only they heard, push your way past hulking linebacker types who were standing along the walls, flexing, and then wait in line. If you wanted to dance, you had to contend with all the would-be Terence Trent d’Arbys swishing their buttocks into yours–and you had to avoid being maimed by the skinhead who seemed to fancy himself a combination of John Travolta and Muhammad Ali.
One of the bartenders was screaming at a couple of toughs in their 20s who had tossed a drink in his face. The drink tosser had one of those “What’d I do?” looks on his face. The drink was all over the floor, and those waiting in line along the bar were trying to maneuver away from the ice without slipping or losing their places.
“What?”
“Oh. How’s it going, Bernice?”
Suddenly the woman with the silver purse tripped. Her arms flew backward and hit a big bouncer type. He whipped around and lost his balance, and then slammed into my shoulder. I landed practically across the bar.
“He’s bleeding,” somebody said.
