Hopefully My Vape Will Last the Weekend

Early March 2023

1.

It’s 9:30pm on Thursday March 1st,

and I’m walking down Bleecker street listening to “Sextape” by Deftones. I’m listening in the Marshall headphones I just bought on Amazon, not because of the superior sound quality, but because they were the cutest accessory in all of the photos I pinned to my “fashion inspo” pinterest board this week.

I like Deftones but I lie to my friends about being a bigger fan than I actually am. Their “secret” pop up show promoting their collab with Heaven by Marc Jacobs is tonight (which I’m not sufficiently clouted enough to be invited to…see cloutbombing) and I want to revisit the source material behind the sardonic memes that me and my friend from acting class had been sending to each other earlier today.

I’m heading to Beckett’s loft on Hudson street to see Johnny St. Grace perform her first show in New York. I met Grace last weekend at Beckett's and told her I would come check it out. 

On my walk there I stop to buy a new vape, one that will hopefully sustain me all weekend and change the music from “Sextape” to “One Way or Another” by Blondie. 

“One Way or Another” is one of those songs that helps me muster up the courage to walk into a party alone. Not that I’m particularly nervous about showing up alone, I’ve been here before and eventually I’ll be meeting my friend Olivia, but sometimes you need a little aural courage when liquid courage is no longer an option. (4 months sober from alcohol babyyyy, more on that in another post) Regardless, I take the longest route in 30 degree weather, pacing extra blocks just to avoid showing up alone and fashionably early.

Beckett’s loft feels like a place Debbie Harry would have hung out when the West Village was just called The Village. Somewhere she would have raced to after a shift when she was still a waitress at Max’s Kansas City. But even in the 70s this place would have felt nostalgic. 

This place evokes a feeling more of 60s bohemian beatnik culture than anything else. There are people smoking cigarettes under a multitude of chairs hanging from the ceiling and purchasing their drinks and loosies from a *donation* based bar. (It’s the illegality of it all that gives it its charm.) They read poetry, sing opera, put on plays, and dance to music on a baby grand until the wee hours. The expansive walls are adorned with books, all of which are for sale, and the eccentric furniture and art have ostensibly been inherited in the twenty or so years Beckett has lived in the apartment upstairs. 

There is a portrait of Beckett on the wall, the curator of this palace of art and community, overlooking the mural of the Tense logo painted on the floor. Tense is Beckett’s literary magazine that will continue the legacy of this loft after the new owner undoubtedly turns it into two small $5,000 a month apartments with shoddy bathroom hardware. (You can donate to their kickstarter here)

I get there and say hello to the familiar faces. Grace approaches me, thanks me for coming and informs me that not only is this her premiere show but also her birthday party. I start talking to her friend Abby, who doesn’t have instagram and is starting a print magazine called Mush, about the validity of autofiction. We decide that since everyone today seems to run or contribute to a magazine or a blog, (lol) that narcissism is okay in the writing process because you have to write what you know. 

My friend Olivia arrives, over the moon from a lecture given by Dean Kissick. She tells me the lecture was great but what was really exciting to her is that when she happened to strike up a conversation with the guy sitting next to her, it was Peter Fend, the controversial climate activist and artist whose work began to blow up in the 80s. 

The show starts and is opened by True Blue (I think that’s his name? I couldn’t find it on the flier) who plays songs on a guitar that is plucked out of the chaos of artifacts in the basement. After a few songs, Grace takes the stage with her guitarist.

Grace’s voice is softly, longingly and hauntingly singing to us. She effortlessly hits all her low notes with the same sultry confidence as she does when she elegantly glides to the high tones that pierce the room. I remember her describing her music as gothic Appalachian cabaret music and it does not disappoint.

After the show my friend Ellie, who I met here the weekend prior, and I bid adieu to the friends and the people we just met (conversation is relatively easy at Beckett’s) and start our sojourn to the Lower East Side. 

As we walk, she offers me a cigarette and to my chagrin pulls out a matchbook from the restaurant where I work. 

She asks me if I like working there. I tell her “a job is a job” and scratch the matches with a little too much conviction, probably because I lowkey got in a fight with my manager the other day.

We finally get to Home Sweet Home, a hot and sweaty bar in a basement on Chrystie street where The Dare hosts his somewhat weekly party, Freakquencies. I’ve never been but I’m particularly excited because tonight he’s dropping his second single, “Good Time.”

If you haven’t heard of The Dare, he makes the kind of music that plays over montages of fucked up party people in a24 movies. I like the girls that do drugs, girls with cigarettes in the back of the club he chants at the start of his dark heathen anthem “Girls.” Girls that hate cops and buy guns, as if it were the soundtrack in the film made about this night by Harmony Korine. 

We get there and immediately cut the line because Ellie’s friends are at the front, (maybe because we’re the characters in this Harmony Korine film) and get right in. The music is loud, and there’s ambient smoke and lights that make you feel like you’re on drugs, even if you aren’t. But judging by the girl I see in a booth face blank with spit dripping down the side of her mouth, (likely in the throes of a k-hole) most people were. When my friend offered me a bit of mushroom chocolate, I eagerly take it. 

As we sat in the bathroom musing on how genuinely delicious the chocolate was, the clock strikes midnight and The Dare plays his new song. Let’s have some fun tonight, cause we’re all on the brink of suicide! Big facts for all the New Yorkers in the room slowly coming out of their seasonal depression. I’ve got no money, you’ve got no money, we’ve got a good time He later adds. Fuck yeah. It feels good to dance to songs about making the most of what you’ve got instead of the lavishness of success. It’s giving punk recession-core electroclash blog house realness. 

After about an hour or so of dancing, Ellie and I decide to leave. Since both of us are in our “New York Sober” era, we have learned when it’s time to leave a party. If you haven’t heard of what New York Sober is, that's because I just made it up. It’s when you don’t drink but you’re open to most drugs that are offered to you. (Except the really bad ones.)

As we’re picking up our coats, the bouncer starts yelling at a group of people behind us to get out. 

“There is no smoking in here!” He screams.

“Okay bro but can I just get my coat? It’s inside” said the unlucky smoker.

 “I don’t give a fuck about your coat! Get the fuck out before I get really tight with you. What you think this is? 1970?” 

We climb up the stairs, eager to get away from the situation, and land on the street. Shortly after, the ejectees emerge and I notice that this unlucky smoker was Yves Tumor clearly joining us after opening the Deftones show tonight. If they had really been a Dare fan, they would have joined the girls I saw with their cigarettes in the back of the club. ;)

We let the debacle unfold and share a joint with a friend on the street before we see a woman being intimidated by a man. One of my favorite things about women is that no matter where you are, when we see another woman in trouble we go and help. After asking her if she was okay, and pulling her away from the man, she begins to lament the difficulty of being married.

As she tells her story, my ears start ringing and I have to sit down. I know this feeling. It’s the same feeling I got when I was a freshman in college, slept until 2pm, woke up, faced a joint and then passed out while paying for my food in the dining hall. 

I go to sit on the steps of the storefront next to the club but the bouncer immediately tells me to move. I have no choice. I must sit on the dirty street. Fuck. Everyone is going to think I’m disgusting. Luckily I’m wearing a long wool coat so I don’t have to sit my ass straight on the ground. A girl next to me asks if I’m okay as I sit and breathe deep. I tell her I’m fine. I just need to sit until the feeling passes.

What feels like five minutes later but could have been twenty, my new friends and the girl who we pulled away from the man who was yelling at her come over to see if I’M doing okay. Jesus christ, this woman was in a moment of real distress and I made it about me. But that was a valid question. I must have looked like a crazy person sitting cross legged outside the club with my eyes closed, stroking my chest to self soothe. 

I tell them I’m fine and promptly, in an embarrassed rush, leave. I immediately call my friend Adi to ask her if she would have thought I was weird if she had basically just met me and I sat on the ground outside the club for fifteen minutes. She says it’s fine and talks me down. I’m just anxious because I’m high. I get on the train.

I run into one of Ellie’s friends that I was smoking weed with outside the club. The one who lead the pack on getting our new friend away from her husband. I tell her I’m fine, that just happens sometimes. We get off at the same train stop and convince the bodega man to let us in to buy ice cream. I tell her if they have voodoo chips I will scream. They do. I squeal and I end my night watching TV and eating chips instead of spiraling about almost passing out like a weirdo.

2. 

It’s 2pm on Friday March 2nd,

And I’m only awakened by a knock at the front door. In a daze, I answer it. It’s the Fedex guy looking for my roommate to sign for the airtags she ordered for our cats because one of them got out the week before. 

I sign, and the Fedex man looks at me and tells me I’m beautiful. For real? Here I am, in my embarrassing navy blue, polka dotted flannel pajamas, hair greasy like a rats nest, with my face covered in slime. Despite feeling crazy the night before, I did have the energy to do my skincare routine. I am beautiful. Just not right now. 

I tell him thank you and he asks to shake my hand, calling me gorgeous and beautiful again. He does have really nice eyes. He tries to get my number but I just close my door and tell him to have a nice day. I mean really, how many women does he do this to each day? It’s just a numbers game for the fedex man. But he was cute, and I reprimand myself because I don’t date as much as I really should. When I tell my roommate what just happened she responds with, “not to steal your thunder but I think the same Fedex guy did that to me once too.” My impulse was right! Does he not remember trying this move at this exact apartment?

Begrudgingly, I get in the shower, curl my hair and head to work. I’m running late, as usual, and text the manager that my train was delayed. A classic lie. Much to my delight, I arrive at work and can’t even clock in yet because my shift doesn’t start until 5pm. A win for chronically late girls everywhere.

Work is fine. I hate hosting. It’s boring and I make no money doing it. I’m counting down the seconds until I can clock out and meet up with Adi. When I do, I arrive at the Old Rabbit Club, the bar on Macdougal that she manages. (Where at the end of the month we will be hosting a poetry night !!) She sets a timer (because she’s taking a prolonged break) and we jump in a cab to the East Village.

We’re heading to The York, which is a charming little hole in the wall on Avenue B that some people she knows from the music scene are opening tonight. There are Tiffany lamps with warm lighting and exposed beams on the ceiling, the walls are decorated with thrifted paintings of men on horses and dark colored still lives. Everyone there is dressed in leather and black and definitely listens to The Clash. (But honestly, who doesn’t)

We grab a drink, a beer for her and seltzer water for me, because they don’t have Shirley Temples (sad) and catch up. Her boyfriend John arrives and they cuddle up in the seat opposite me, clearly meant for one. Adi is really excited to see him since it’s Friday and they haven’t seen each other since Monday. Apparently that’s like a year of separation in relationship time. I wouldn’t know because all my past relationships are situationships where we spend every day together for a month until I break it off. 

Adi’s alarm goes off and she and John head back to the Rabbit. I on the other hand open my umbrella and walk down to 113 Ludlow, in a dress, in the pouring rain, (I’m a hero) for a birthday party hosted by Neoliberall Hell. 

I don’t know Ana personally, but I’ve followed her meme account for a while now, and some of the people at Beckett’s the night before tell me I should come. They’re raising money for Feed the People Bedstuy and that’s the first cash I spend this weekend to get into an event. 

Mehanata is quite the place. It’s a 3 story club with neon stimulation everywhere you look. Apparently there’s an ice chamber on the bottom floor too. Like most exciting places in New York, you’d never know it was there unless you were specifically looking for it. 

I run into some of the people from Beckett’s and start to dance in the basement. There’s a huge carpet on the ground at the bottom of the stairs to the dance floor which I later find out, (through a downtown scene bingo meme) is called Kevin Carpet. Literally why? And can someone please give me more context. Or is it just a bit and I’m thinking too hard about it.

Downstairs in the space guarded by Kevin Carpet, Ryan from the instagram account Antiart, who hosts a podcast with Ana, is DJing. I don’t know him personally, but we’re mutuals on instagram and have replied to a story or two. I’m not seeing Marrianne Williamson anywhere though, even though she was listed as one of the hosts on the flier.

Upstairs they’re playing oldies like “Jailhouse Rock” and “Mambo #5”. The Cobrasnake is around, shoving his camera in people's faces without asking them if he can. Which during the “indie sleaze”, paparazzi enduring culture of the early aughts was probably alluring, but I’m not sure how much it works in today's culture of consent. Once at a party at TV Eye I saw a punk girl in a chain mail bikini curse him the fuck out for taking a picture of her without letting her know. But here in downtown, when Mark takes out his camera, people pretend not to notice and tend to cheat their bodies out towards him for the perfect candid-not-so-candid photo.

I leave the party pretty quickly, since I showed up pretty late and take the train back to Bushwick where the guy sitting next to me asks me if my name is Lily. I tell that it’s Charlotte and he swears he knows me, probably from when he works the door at Trans Pecos. I don’t have the heart to tell him I’ve never been. He asks me to play pool with him at The Broadway, but again I refuse and give him my number instead. He never texted.

3. 

It’s Saturday March 3rd

And I wake up “early” (12pm) to go get my hair cut at Shizen. Shizen is the go to mullet cuttery for models, aspiring models and somebodies who are really nobodies alike. I’ll leave it up to you to decide which one I am but know that since 2020 Miyuki has been satisfying my needs for impulsive chops. She’s given me a two tone mullet with -micro bangs-, billowing lil ~curtain bangs~ and today she gives me |straight bangs| right across my forehead. Which actually, if you think about it, are just different versions of the same thing and not a sign of mental illness, luv. 

After that I went home, threw on some dark purple lipstick and an outfit equally suitable for the club as it is for hosting at a “fine dining” restaurant. 

When I get to work, my work husband (hot guy who has never responded to my advances) tells me that he didn’t even recognize me with the bangs and that I’m out here looking like “a hot secretary.” Bitch, finally. An admission that he thinks I’m hot too and all I did was cut my hair.

That would have been enough to sustain me through a grueling shift of catering to the boring finance employed upper echelon of downtown society until I looked at the reservations on the ipad. At seven, the table we always leave empty for regulars (because regulars are the only thing that is sacred in the restaurant industry) was actually reserved. For Sarah Jessica Parker. 

Seeing celebrities doesn’t phase me much, I’ve worked on film sets, assisted actors and it’s a normal occurrence to see people like Andrew Garfield or Sam Smith at work. But with SJP, my mind flooded with possibilities. Mostly about if she needs a new assistant or my brilliant idea for a character I could play on the next season of And Just Like That. 

Seven o’clock comes and she flounces in. She really is just like Carrie Bradshaw. Kind and generous but ultimately just wanted to have her dinner with… who is that behind her? Andy Cohen??

I desperately wanted to ask him if he could tell me how Heather (of the Real Housewives of Salt Lake City fame) got her black eye. It’s obvious to any watchers of the show that she and Jen Shah were probably fucking. But I didn’t, I just asked if they wanted sparkling, still or tap water.

They wanted tap. Celebrities, they’re just like us. 

After work, I got on the train back to Bushwick and headed over to Olivia’s apartment before we headed to Paragon for the Planet Dance party hosted by Sksksks. 

She lives right around the corner from the club so we have time to chat. One of my favorite things about Olivia is her voice. It’s high pitched and gentle and every time she says a word with an S she makes a whistling sound. It’s perfect for reading poetry. In fact, one time when she read me a poem at a restaurant the server stopped to listen before handing us our check.

We talk about all the people we see on the nightlife scene who are well nearing forty. Are they enjoying themselves? Are they chasing something they’ll never find or is partying what makes them genuinely happy? Who knows. We try not to cast judgment. We’re so annoying. 

My friend Natalie texts me that she’s in a car and on her way. We’re meeting her at the club. By the time she gets there she texts me to get moving because there’s a line that she didn’t have to wait in because she was listed. So we move. The line seemingly went down in about five minutes and we get in without a problem. 

Paragon has two floors. A basement with a pool table and black and white checkered floors that smells like the natural deodorant of its inhabitants and a bigger upstairs, with a disco ball and a balcony for the DJ to play on. We start downstairs where we find Natalie and dance for a bit. 

When it’s time to check out who's playing upstairs, I notice someone, a customer from work tonight. Because I am unhinged I ask him, “were you at *insert restaurant name here* tonight?” He looks at me like I have two heads. “I only ask because I’m the host there.” “Oh yeah!” He replies, “I remember you.” I think he was just saying that to be nice. “Okay bye, have fun!” My friends laugh. I can’t keep these kinds of things to myself. 

One of my favorite things about partying in Brooklyn is that everyone is cool, but doesn’t care. They’re here to dance. There’s an air of abandon here. Sometimes in Manhattan you get the feeling that everyone wants to be noticed for how sick they look or who they’re with. 

Upstairs Galcher is playing an incredible remix of a Kylie Minogue song, even though we can’t recall which specific one, we recognize her voice. He then plays “Start It Right” by Divine Interface and Stefan Ringer which Natalie immediately clocks because she’s also a DJ and sometimes plays it in some of her sets. 

As we’re dancing I pull my new headphones out of my bag and put them on my head. I look like a loser at a silent disco but I don’t care. Since I was too cheap to pay for the coat check, I shoved my sweater and raincoat in my bag and I’m afraid that I’m going to crush the headphones. 

This for me was a valid fear because the last time I had headphones as nice as these I was in college and broke them at a Halloween party. In my defense it was because the party was catered by my favorite bagel place in Boston, so I shoved so many bagels into my bag and cracked my headphones under the pressure. A mistake I wasn’t going to make again with my coat. 

Natalie nudges me and asks to give my vape a kiss. I pass it to her. I’m glad that we’re at a place where we don’t have to hide the little light at the bottom of the nic stick, but rather can remark on how lovely the light is on the face of the person we’re looking at. It’s a sweet added edition to the smokey room. 

Natalie passes the vape back to me and tells me to look up at the light above me. It’s just another disco ball. “No,” she tells me, “look at the other one. It used to be in Studio 54.” She’s friendly with the owners, hence the list, so I know it to be true. 

It made me wonder, had my mother ever danced under this light? My mom was lucky enough to go to Studio 54 while she was a student at Columbia before she got kicked out, (presumably for partying too much) and to this day she swears that she was always a good girl and just got into Studio 54 because she was pretty. Iconic that that’s her story and she’s sticking to it, but there’s no way she didn’t do a little cocaine from a naked woman's nail while in line for the bathroom.

I go to take a drag of my vape and it starts to blink. It’s dead, much like my social battery. It’s nearing 3am so we all decide to go home. Since it technically is Sunday morning I guess that counts for it making it the whole weekend. 

As we left, *I couldn’t help but wonder,* am I slowly coming out of my seasonal depression and will meeting new people at parties in Manhattan and Brooklyn fill the void? Will I keep doing this until I’m forty? Is working at a restaurant in order to supplement a dream worth it? And lastly, is there a place on And Just Like That for a lowly actress turned Substack writer, who in the SATC universe is the second coming of Carrie Bradshaw? All I know is that there is enough going on in this city to keep me entertained and maybe, for now, that’s enough. 

xoxo 

Char <3