remember that bar in the world trade center?
remember that bar at the top of the world trade center? where, past all the stories and stories of offices... the elevator going up so fast your stomach turned, and suddenly you were surrounded by bright lights and the city beneath your feet. businessmen in $10,000 suits chatting with their young, young girls in designer tube tops, businessmen buying expensive martinis, and then the freaky old club girls with purple hair and piercings in a booth.
i wanted to talk to the old club girls but i was too afraid, and J was already trying to impress M, failing miserably by talking too much, no matter how pretty she was. we sat in a row when shizuo came to the booth: giggling at how ironic it was that this club was for free, even though the investment bankers would have no clue who the DJ was. M ruined our chances for talking to the old club girls even more by calling them "skanky bitches" and when i looked at them the women turned away.
in the bathroom i ran away from the woman who tried to dry my hands for me. things like that were frightening. the businessmens' girls had no problem with it and didn't even look her in the eye, slipping a big fat tip and then tottering out on spiked high heel sandals, their purses swinging behind them.
shizuo was tall and gawky with an overbite, you wondered how someone so tall and thin could manage to stand up straight at all: shoulders hunched over, as his standard Japanese girlfriend with purple hair swayed back and forth before he even began to play music. he was pale, like a giant rabbit, with watery blue eyes and dark circles, of an indeterminate age that men reach when they pass 25 but don't yet start to gray. he could have been any age, really, even 50, and to see him move was fascinating: he was a like a delicate white dancing stork.
