Saturday, August thirteenth, 1986. 11:11 p.m., Eastern Standard Time.
It is August. For all intents and purposes, it should be warm. Boiling, even. The six inhabitants of the loft should be sprawled across couches and mattresses, a fan blasting, sweat trickling down their necks and onto the ground. The heavily-enforced dress code should involve nothing more than underclothes, violators subject to fine. There should be no end of possible activities to be pursued by the bohemians, because it is a summer evening, a Saturday, hot and pleasant.
Instead, Roger is out performing. Collins is with him, watching his show and trying to pick up some unsuspecting young man in the dry Brooklyn club at which Roger is performing. The other four residents of the loft are in their living room, roasting in the torturous heat. Benny is on the couch, Mark sprawled atop the table, April lying on the floor with her hands tucked beneath her head. Maureen is lying on a mattress that has been relocated from Benny and Collins' room to the middle of the living room.
All in all, the four are bored.
"I'm bored," April complains.
Exhausted, the other three contemplate turning to face her, but decide against it.
"I'm bored," Maureen echoes. "I want to go out."
Mark, who is lying on his stomach, is muffled as he replies, "See if Collins and Roger left any flyers lying around. Maybe we can splurge on a subway trip to Brooklyn."
Benny snorts. April snickers, but adds, "I do want to go to a club."
"Then you know what to do," Maureen says solemnly.
"What?"
Still stony, Maureen declares, "Put on your sluttiest outfit and do your hair, then meet me in the hall in a half hour. We're going out."
April mumbles in assent, and pushes herself up from the ground, then silently crosses to the room she shares with Roger. After the door closes, Maureen stands as well, and turns to face the two men in the room. "Are you guys coming?"
"Like Mark trusts you in a club by yourself," Benny mumbles.
Maureen whirls on him. "Why don't you come, then?" she demands, already craving the rush of an alcoholic buzz.
Without another word, Benny gets to his feet and retreats into his room. Immediately afterward, Maureen turns to her boyfriend, ready to pout if he refuses. Mark surprises her, however, and twists around until he is sitting up, his legs dangling off of the table. Maureen takes his hand, and Mark hops off the table. They go to their room.
---
"Have you seen my lipstick?"
"Fuck, aren't there any better shoes in this apartment?"
"Oh my god, what is that? What happened to my hair?!"
"Benny, did you put dye in Maureen's shampoo?"
"Shit. I think that's a problem."
"No!"
"I don't believe you!"
"It was probably Roger."
"I'm going to kill him!"
"Look, he's not even here now…"
"God, I need a cigarette."
"Mark, do you have socks I could borrow?"
"Yeah, they're right – "
"Oh my god, your hair's purple!"
"Nice work, Sherlock."
"You know what? I'm leaving."
"No, no, shut up, we're coming!"
"You have ten seconds. Ten – "
"Is shaving cream toxic?"
" – Seven – "
"When your mom sees you, Mo, she'll kill you."
"I like to live dangerously."
" – Two – "
"We're coming!"
" – One – "
"Okay. Let's go."
A jingle of keys. A whispered, "Zero."
The door slams shut.
---
"So where to?" asks April reasonably as she and her roommates begin to descend the stairs to the sidewalk. "Bar? Club? Party?"
Benny scoffs. "When have we ever gone to a party?"
April shrugs. "That one time at your girlfriend's," she suggests.
Obviously irritated, Benny rolls his eyes. Patiently, sounding rather rehearsed, he sighs. "Look, I told you never to mention that, April, and I don't know why you keep – "
"Children! Focus!"
Benny and April lapse into silence. "Sorry," they mumble.
Maureen giggles. "Mark, where can we go?" she inquires, a whine laced in her words.
"Somewhere artsy," April cuts in, although the line between artistic and the alternative is particularly thin in the East Village.
Mark groans. "April, you have a fetish or something," he mutters. After a moment of contemplation, he tells Maureen, "There's a place I've been that's uptown, but it's good."
With a laugh, Maureen demands, "When have you ever been above eighteenth street?"
"Plenty of times," Mark snaps defensively. "This one's on forty-sixth – "
"Whoa," Benny cuts in. "Are we all willing to splurge the roundtrip four bucks each?"
After a moment of thought, April points out, "That's sixteen total. It'll be cheaper to take a cab."
"Yes!" Maureen hisses, because something about cabs has always appealed to her. They seem so much more sophisticated, somehow, than the public transportation she always must resort to taking.
Mark hums to himself. "If it goes over sixteen, it's on your tab, April," he says warningly.
"Fine, but you're buying drinks," April shoots back at him, and leaps out of the building onto the sidewalk, throwing her arm out into the street.
Benny groans. "She is so energetic," he moans.
"Try not to jump her," Maureen advises him, patting his shoulder. Benny winces.
"Yes, Your Highness," he recites, and quickens his pace to meet April at the cab that has now pulled over on the street. Once the four passengers have squeezed in the back seat of the car, all eyes turn to Mark.
Quietly, he utters, "Forty-sixth between eighth and ninth."
The cab speeds off uptown.
---
After the four bohemians have each scrounged up their share of the fare (plus an additional four dollars for April, whose calculations were clearly inaccurate), they exit the vehicle and survey the street, looking up and down in search of the establishment mentioned by Mark.
"There," he says, and points.
A small black awning is the object of his indication, the establishment's name etched upon it in white lettering. Maureen recoils. "Mark, babe," she says, evidently fighting disgust, "it's tiny."
Mark smiles. "You say that now," he tells her firmly. "Would you rather us go back downtown and forget about New York City's favorite cabaret?"
"Cabaret?" echoes April.
Suddenly having a coughing fit, Mark turns his head and does not answer. April does not persist, but latches herself onto Benny's arm. "Be my boyfriend for the night?" she asks him sweetly.
"How could I object?" Benny replies dryly. "As friendly as dear old Davis is, he has a gorgeous girlfriend."
"Of course he does," April scoffs.
They laugh.
Mark and Maureen continue to stare at each other, neither willing to blink. "Go in," Mark insists. "You'll love it."
"No, I won't," Maureen whines.
"Want to bet?" Mark demands.
April squeals. "Don't do it, Maureen! He's already extorted from me tonight."
Maureen glares at her boyfriend.
"Benny?" she asks, peering up at her roommate. "Can I be your girlfriend tonight too?"
Huffily, Mark enters the cabaret. Hesitantly, Benny and the girls follow.
---
A dusty layer of fog sweeps through the room, the air silvery and thick. The overpowering fumes of alcohol are laced throughout the room. The lights are dim, a single spotlight snaking down on a man standing on a stool in the middle of the room. Maureen, Benny and April all stare at Mark, bewildered. Bars and clubs, their usual destinations in times of alcoholic cravings, are nothing like this. Mark shrugs and continues his brisk journey to the center of the establishment. Immediately, no less than three scantily-clad individuals (one male, two female) flock to Mark, one of whom is missing a shirt; another, her bra.
Benny's eyes widen. He glances at April and Maureen, the latter of whom immediately sheds her shirt and deposits onto the floor. April glances at her friend and plows immediately into the crowd. Benny makes to follow her, but first gives Maureen a surveying look.
"You like?" she asks playfully, tossing her shoulders back.
Benny whistles in approval. "If I were even mildly drunk, you can be sure I wouldn't just be standing here."
Maureen giggles. She leans forward and whispers in Benny's ear, "Neither would I."
That said, she adjusts her bra straps and, her ass swaying, saunters into the crowd.
As she disappears from view, Benny can think of nothing to do but to follow suit. He shoves his sleeves backwards, unbuttons the first three buttons on his shirt, and unties a single shoe. Before he can plow into the crowd and pass it off as an accident, however, there is a giggle in his ear and a hand on his shoulder. "What's your name, handsome?" an anonymous girl whispers.
Benny tells her.
---
Call it a fad, but several years ago, it seemed to Mark that the cooler and rougher one looked, the better it was for his romantic and sex life. However, as an albino-esque bohemian with rectangular glasses and a buttoned shirt, Mark is getting more attention than does the burly, tattooed man in the corner. He isn't complaining, but it seems odd to him.
Equally odd-seeming to him is the way everyone is so forward. He would not object to someone striking up casual conversation, buying him a drink, or even delivering a cheesy pick-up line. However, when hands trail down his shirt and fingers trickle down into the waistband of his pants, Mark cannot help but shy away. He isn't a prude, but feels the need for personal space, especially in so public a place. He isn't offended by it – not hardly – but he is merely uncomfortable when it is forced upon him. It isn't sexy to him, just violating.
These are facts to Mark; it is a fact that such actions are violating. However, as much as Mark knows that, he also knows that the same "facts" – the same rules of what makes something violating – do not apply to people with whom one already has a comfortable relationship. So when April playfully sidles up to Mark and rests a hand on his ass, Mark neither squirms nor resists. "Hi, April."
She laughs, her breath untinged with alcohol. Mark sighs in relief. "Hi, Mark," she mimics, and giggles. "Enjoying yourself?"
"Absolutely," Mark says, and with a glance at the bar, asks loudly, "Do you want me to buy you a drink?"
Smiling wickedly, April asks, "Does it look like I need one?"
"About as much as I need an allergy to camera parts," Mark shoots back. "Do you want one?"
"Do you?" April asks, and whips a fan of twenty-dollar bills out of her skirt pocket.
Mark exhales. "Where'd you get that?"
"Gave a guy a lap dance," she explains, immediately relieving Mark of his fears. With a shrill cackle, she demands, "You thought I was whoring? Bad Mark. Shame on you, you dirty-minded little cameraboy."
Chewing on the inside of his lip, Mark points out, "Roger accuses you of doing that enough times for it not to come as a shock to you, one would think."
"One would think, but have you ever been called a whore, Mark?"
Mark tilts his head to the side. "Hmm. No, I don't think so."
Giggling, April unbuttons the first few buttons of Mark's shirt. "Well, you are," she tells him playfully. Licking her finger and running it through Mark's hair to muss it, she adds decisively, "You're a total slut."
Mark opens his mouth to object, but April lays a finger on his lips. "Not a word out of you, Mr. Cohen," she instructs. "Not a single word."
She grabs his hand and begins pulling him toward the center of the room. "Come on," she says brightly, her eyes suddenly lighting up. "Let's dance."
---
Approximately forty-five minutes into this little bohemian adventure, long after Maureen and Benny have lost each other and Mark and April's footsteps on the dance floor have been trodden over, another unlikely couple meets up in the cabaret. Mark is one half of this pair, with newly-applied eyeliner outlining his sky blue orbs, a finger on his neck to make sure he is still alive.
As Mark drags himself to the bar, another man collapses on the barstool beside him. "Tired?" grunts Benny, to much assent from Mark. "You want to go home?"
"Desperately," Mark replies flatly. "That's part of what this is about."
"Hmm?" asks Benny. He is, after all, new to the city, a brand-new import from Brown University. He doesn't know very much yet.
Laying his hands on the bar, Mark sighs. "The way this works is that you're supposed to want to go home – desperately. You're supposed to want to be home, lying in bed. You want to want that so bad that you can visualize every second of it, can imagine the exact feel of the blankets and mattress on your skin – "
"Not that I have a mattress in my room, because Maureen decided to move it – "
" – and you have to be able to want this so badly that you're almost ready to kill everyone in the whole fucking place if it'll get you home. But then…"
"Then," echoes Benny. "Then what?"
Mark grins. "Then someone orders you another drink, or asks you to dance, or you see someone across the room who has beautiful eyes. So you stay, and you regret it in the morning, because you can never quite recall the exact feeling that made you stay. It was obviously pretty important the night before, but in the morning, you just feel stupid."
Benny nods. What else is there to do?
"And," continues Mark, "there's always some trace of what you did the night before that you can never remember. Like, you'll be wearing someone else's underwear, or have a tattoo on your arm, or have a phone number written on scrap paper in your pocket. Or you'll have a guitar pick taped to your chest. And all that is from the hazy details from six, seven hours ago. But you'll never be able to remember that. You just imagine the worst."
Whistling, Benny asks, "You ever been that drunk?"
Mark cracks a smile. "Twice."
"And?"
Mark raises a hand to his forehead and wipes sweat across the back of his hand. Benny is watching him carefully, awaiting an answer. After a moment of this scrutiny, he nudges Mark. In turn, the filmmaker thrusts a hand into his pocket, digging out a twenty-dollar bill. He lays the bill on the bar and murmurs something to the bartender, whispering some New York City secret into his ear.
When the drink is placed in front of Benny and Mark's change is dumped into his hand, the two men watch the neon green liquid hesitantly for a moment. "Drink up," says Mark encouragingly.
"Is it going to get me thoroughly trashed?" asks Benny, either wholly excited or terribly nervous, or both.
Mark shrugs. "It might," he says offhandedly. "It could also incapacitate you for the rest of your life."
"Ha, ha," Benny mutters. With a gulp, he raises the shot glass to his lips and takes an abrupt sip of it, swallowing it all without hesitation.
A moment passes. Mark stares at the shot glass. Benny looks all over the room, smiling scarily.
"Well?" asks Mark.
Benny abruptly hops off the barstool, stands before Mark, and plants a wet kiss on his lips.
---
Neither of them knows how it happened, but in a tangle of hair that should have been tied back and makeup made liquidy with sweat, Maureen and April collapse on a couch in the lobby, their lips on each other's, their limbs twisted together to form one bizarre Gordian knot. Neither has ever been with a girl before, but what is the difference between male and female to a pair of girls who have consumed, in this night alone, more alcohol than they have in the entire rest of their lives? Their vision is blurry, like their eyeliner, and those articles of clothing that they have not already lost have already been deposited on the floor at their feet. It is purely Maureen and April on the couch, drunk and stupid and crazy, twisting together obscenely, not really doing anything but moving, generating more and more unnecessary heat.
---
Benny and Mark's hands tighten on each other's shoulders and backs, their grips suddenly desperate. It is a new experience for each, but Benny has never drank anything like this before, and Mark has never tried this, and it's a night of new experiences – why not? This is a perfectly wonderful place to experiment, a cabaret, a place of music and dancing and all sorts of seedy things that these two Brown dropouts never thought they would ever see, back when they were suburban and young and ignorant.
As long as they are here, here and drunk and far beyond the limits of those who will not wake up in the morning with a hangover, Mark and Benny may as well get something out of their experience. For Mark, who is already used to New York, it is hardly any newer than it is for Benny, who has never seen or done anything like this either. These are two boys who grew up together, who knew each other's faces in the best and the worst of times, who roomed together in colleges and room together now, who will never again be able to make eye contact without being condemned to awkward avoidance of the subject of this very night. These are two boys who did everything together, played basketball and baseball and soccer, went to prom in the same limo, got drunk together for the first time.
The same way, Mark and Benny are experimenting together, and while they are perhaps a little old for this to be justified by being called "experimentation," it is just that, a touch of curiosity guided by the wicked presence of alcohol.
---
How they get home at all is questionable. In the morning, Maureen will say that she and April walked, which is flat-out untrue – from Forty-Sixth Street between Eighth and Ninth Avenues, only the fittest and most willing sober person could make it all the way to Eleventh Street and Avenue B. No other theories are presented by Benny, Mark, or April, though the most likely possibility is that some kind soul brought the four to a cab, dug identification out of one's wallet, and gave the driver the address, perhaps even paying for the journey.
The escalation of the six flights of stairs is another questionable topic. It is unlikely that any of the four was in any condition to make it up all one hundred and eighty stairs. However, as Maureen, Mark, Benny and April all woke in the living room of the loft, sprawled on Benny's mattress, it is obvious that they made it home somehow. It may have been through the help of Roger and Collins, who would probably have arrived back at the loft building at around the same time that their four roommates arrived back from the cabaret. If such was the case, Mark says the next morning, Roger and Collins are entitled to the "Roommates of the Year" award.
Even despite Roger and Collins' undying generosity, they do not offer their less fortunate roommates any Tylenol or Aspirin. After all, Collins points out, if they supplied all four with an adequate amount of pills, they would probably run out. In addition, "bohemians have to build tolerance," Roger points out, slapping Mark heartily on the shoulder.
"Roger and Collins," Maureen declares bitterly, "just wish they could have come with us."
"It wasn't that great," April tells her boyfriend dryly, although she giggles and concedes that "There were parts of it that you would've loved." Maureen, too, snickers, thus plaguing Roger with strange images for the duration of the day.
When Roger and Collins go out to buy food ("Yes! Leave!" Mark cries), the four remaining bohemians convene to discuss the previous night's festivities. "What was it?" Maureen asks.
"What was it?" echoes April, obviously wondering the same thing.
Benny and Mark look at each other knowingly.
"Well?" Maureen demands.
Mark sighs. "Did you love April?" he asks, sounding rehearsed.
Maureen wrinkles her nose. "She's like my sister."
"Ew, incest," Benny whines, sounding one-fifth of his age, although with a wildly advanced vocabulary.
Mark glares at him. "You aren't helping," he informs him.
"I thought I was."
"Well, you're not." Mark sighs. "Look…"
"Has this happened to you before?" Maureen cuts in.
Mark shrugs. "Once or twice," he says, waving a hand inconsequentially. "With Roger and Collins. And I can promise you, the embarrassment will fade."
"When?" asks Benny.
"Once it happens again," Mark says swiftly. "Either to you or to someone else."
"Well, that's cheerful," drawls Maureen.
Mark smiles. "Isn't it?"
---
To celebrate the fact that their headaches have lightened somewhat in the past several hours, Mark and Maureen tumble into bed in late afternoon, clicking the lock on their door shut. In the dark, their movements are smooth and swift, prompting Mark to remark that "I don't think you were this good before the Cabaret Incident."
Maureen swats him on the ass, but was secretly thinking the same thing.
"I'll have to ask April," Mark continues, still playing with her.
His girlfriend shakes her head, and with the light from outside, Mark can see that. "What?" he asks.
"It wasn't great," Maureen admits, not even blushing. "I mean, you know, it was great just being there, but once we got our act together and actually… well… I mean, neither of us knew what we were doing."
Mark rolls his eyes and drawls, "I'd be a little disconcerted if you did know."
"How about you and Benny?" Maureen presses.
"Oh, it hurt like hell. It's nothing when you don't feel something for the person, you know? Kind of like how beer, it tastes bitter because you don't really like it, you're driven to drink it by something else. Like, you want to get drunk, or you want to be social, or whatever. But you don't actually like it."
Maureen nods. "Exactly."
There is a long pause.
"I want to go back there," she says.
Mark turns to face her, incredulous.
"Not yet," she says hastily. "But, you know. One day."
Mark nods.
"It's great, isn't it?"
Maureen lets a smile spread across her face. "It's amazing."
"Even despite the hangover."
"Even despite the bad sex."
"And the way you can never look the person in the eye again."
"Oh, it's worth every minute of it," Maureen sighs. "Like a roller coaster ride where it's fun as hell, but you throw up right after."
Mark grins. "Like gorging yourself on the best cake in the world."
"A hot shower in the middle of the winter, knowing that you won't have hot water again for another week."
Smiling contentedly, Mark and Maureen fall asleep to images of the cabaret, smoky and seedy and flawed and utterly perfect.