Charm School, Part Four | The Bromance Begins
Vic: “I’ll just forward this to . . . after you’ve had a few. Sorry about the lousy bar service.”
We sat in Vic’s dark, lava-lamp and aquarium-lit office — plush with the kind of thick 70s shag carpet that gave your moving, un-shoed feet a massage (And at this point, I needed all the comfort I could get!) — elevated off the main dance floor, with a one-way mirror-view of the club. This was the real enclave within L’Enclave. I sat in a high-back office chair with a handle-triggered foot rest (like a recliner). He sat on a short rotating stool in front of a tricked-out security monitoring system, controlling the flow of images through the system’s video editing software.
Vic: “Here you are dancing. Or . . . trying to. Hey, check it out — it’s Breaky McBreakdance!”
He made the image twitch forward and backward by a microsecond so that it looked like I was having a standing epileptic conniption. Then he scrubbed forward in the timeline to a view of the ladies room. A wide view of girls stepping over my feet, which were sticking out from under a stall door. Obviously, I was on my knees facing the toilet.
Vic: “Whoops . . . looks like someone had a little too much fun.”
One girl opened the stall door, kicked my feet, and shouted a few coarse words. A hair-pulling scuffle ignited between three girls in the background over mirror space.
Vic: “As entertaining as that is, I must show you the pièce de résistance.”
He scrubbed forward to a shot of me staggering through the VIP section. I teetered left; I teetered right. And finally . . .
Vic: “Timber!”
. . . I crashed through a table with the entire left side of my torso.
Two pickup artists in the 1600s (otherwise known as courtiers), presently off to the royal court to practice their seduction techniques. PORTRAIT OF LORD JOHN STUART AND HIS BROTHER LORD BERNARD STUART, by Anthony van Dyck, circa 1638
You should know at this point that, in those days, because of the pick-up artist craze — and if you’re not sure what I’m talking about, just google the phrase “pick-up artist craze” — club guys dressed like pimps and rock stars; and club girls . . . well . . . some things never change. Club girls have always dressed like prostitutes and groupies, and I suppose they always will. But in the mid-aughts, grown men, sometimes well into middle-age, donned ridiculous accessories, like: accordion top hats; aviator goggles; feather boas; flashing fur coats; video screen belt buckles; neck-loads, arm-loads, and finger-loads of cheap jewelry — on top of their business suits, popped collars, bleached hair, gelled fauxhawks, and Ed Hardy logos. This intentional fashion disaster was known as peacocking. And the young women that these Halloween pimps and rockers pursued were called HBs (an acronym for hot babes), who were ranked by traditional one-to-ten numerical values. Thus, women worthy of pursuit registered, typically, at the HB-7 level or above.
But anyway . . . when I fell through the table, the glassware on top shot up and shattered on the ceiling. The 400-dollars worth of table-service booze and ice and broken glass came a-tumblin’ down on two peacocks and four HBs; who promptly rose, startled, instantly indignant — “How dare that drunk ruin our pose . . . our tableaux! We were looking so terribly trendy and enviable, and now . . .”
Vic: “But wait, there’s more!”
A montage — the same clip of me demolishing that table, over and over in slow motion, each time zoomed-in a bit more.
Vic (as per Kevin Costner in JFK}: “Back, and to the left. Back, and to the left. Back, and to the left. Don’t try this at home, folks.”
And with that, the show was over.
Me: “That’s not the pièce de résistance.”
Vic: “Oh, yeah?”
Me: “Where’s the footage of my fiancé having a threesome in the men’s restroom?”
If you’re normal, you may not know that fancy nightclubs often include widescreen TVs or digital projectors as part of their decor — moving images as wall art; mostly music videos, but also fashion shows, red carpets, people dancing at other nightclubs (And I’m not kidding here. People actually go out to nightclubs and drink and dance while watching video footage of other people doing the same thing.), charity galas, and any other nighttime event where model types feign importance.
I lived in Lakeview at the time of these events; which meant that getting to Rush Street with one helluva hangover and no car was tricky. The stop-n-start motion of the CTA was out of the question. The train drivers tended to ride the brake. And the bus? Fuhgettaboutit! So I took a cab (This was well before Uber.), and I told the driver I was a little woozy. All ya gotta do to get a cab driver to take it easy is to tell him you’re unwell.
It was in the backseat of this taxi, moving south at a modest forty miles per hour in the right-hand lane of Lake Shore Drive — rain beating against the steamy windows; windshield wipers . . . THUMP-thump, THUMP-thump — that I wiped the passenger-side window with my bare hand and saw, as we passed the tennis courts at the north end of Diversey Harbor, a man with a laundry basket of tennis balls practicing his serve. In the rain, mind you! And it was at that moment — once again, feel free to ask your shrink about this — that I remembered the video, broadcast on a dozen monitors throughout L’Enclave, of Eva engaged in a threesome with a peacock and an HB.
This is pretty much what I saw in Vic’s security cam footage.
At first I thought, Golly, they’re showing porn at this nightclub. And then I thought, Heavens, that girl looks a lot like Eva. And then it dawned on me, Holy fucking shit, that IS Eva! And that’s what set me off on that evening’s panicky free-for-all.
You may have noticed that I stayed silent through Vic’s montage of my drunken club shenanigans. That’s because the memories flooded back into my brain at that point. The damn broke as soon as I saw myself enter the club.
I remembered not being able to put enough alcohol down my gullet fast enough. And it all came back up just as fast; which is why I saw myself in the first restroom I could find, kneeling at the porcelain altar, purging myself of those angry demons until the tears and snot of Oren Watson dribbled down my chin and onto my blue LL Bean wrinkle-free Oxford button-down.
Vic: “Dude . . . oh my God! That was your fiancé? I’m so sorry. I mean . . . I’m sorry I broadcast that episode throughout the club. But I’m also sorry that that happened to you.”
Me: “It’s okay.”
Vic: “The system is new. The security system. I saw what was going on in the men’s room and I was trying to zoom-in when I . . . accidentally, somehow . . .”
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Vic: “Family is important to you?”
Me: “Yes, I wanna have kids.”
Vic: “Well then, you don’t want a debutante.”
Me: “Oh?”
Vic: “You want a woman of character. A hot, fertile woman . . . of great depth and character.”
Me: “Where are they?”
Vic: “Good question.”
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There was something in his eyes — a deep empathy — that released a great burden. And once again, the tears and snot began to flow.
Me: “I’m sorry . . .” Sob . . . sob . . . sob . . .
I wiped my face with my hands, and my hands on my jeans.
Vic: “No, don’t apologize. Honest emotion . . . is what it’s about.”
He opened a cabinet that stored a variety of non-alcoholic beverages and an ice bucket.
Vic: “I’m outta ice. Be right back. Here . . . take these napkins.”
I accepted the handful of cocktail napkins so I could clean up my snotty mess without soiling my daywear, which also included a Chicago Symphony sweatshirt. Vic left the office with the ice bucket, leaving the door open. Soft, scratchy orchestral music, which I recognized, wafted in from the club stereo system.
“Dark Victory,” I said when Vic returned, closing the door.
Vic: “Excuse me?”
Me: “That’s the music from Dark Victory. You know . . . the Bette Davis movie.”
Vic: “Yes, I do know. I’m just surprised that you know it.”
Me: “I’m an old movie buff.”
Vic: “Me, too.”
He handed me a sparkling beverage in an Old Fashioned glass.
Vic: “It’s club soda and bitters with a splash of sour mix. It’ll settle your stomach.”
Me: “Thanks.”
Vic resumed his seat, sipping from a custom-decorated silver chalice, also known as a pimp cup. At first glance, the artwork looked like a Grateful Dead logo; but it actually read, “Grateful I’m Not Dead”.
Me: “So . . . that footage, that . . . sex act . . . was happening live, here, in the men’s restroom?”
Vic: “I’m sorry to say, but . . . yes.”
I got up and opened the door.
Me: “I hope you don’t mind. I wanna hear the music.”
Vic: “No, I don’t mind, at all.”
He pressed a button on a remote and the music enveloped the office, as well. Nevertheless, I remained in the doorway, my eyes lost in the darkness across the dance floor.
Me: “She was a virgin.”
Vic: “Excuse me?”
Me: “She said she was a virgin.”
Vic: “My friend, she was a virgin . . . a long time ago. We don’t get a lotta virgins here at Club Long Love, as it’s pejoratively referred to. I mean, I can’t speak for every single one of ‘em. But this place is like a petri dish. And I’ve collected quite of bit of data over the years.”
Me: “Data?”
Vic: “Girls don’t come here to lose their virginity in the men’s room. And that sort of thing . . .”
He gestured in the general direction of the restrooms.
Vic: “. . . has only happened twice in thirteen years. Including your little tramp of a fiancé. No disrespect.”
I shrugged.
Vic: “She’s in here a lot. Okay? With different people, each time. Or rather, she started coming in here a lot over the summer. And what happened in the bathroom — and by the way, she’s now banned from this place — but that sort of acting out means . . .”
He noticed that I was only half-way paying attention. It was too much for me to take in.
Vic: “I’m sorry, I’m rattling on.”
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Vic and I were kindred souls. And I was a cuckolded king too cuckoo to be by myself for too long.
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I walked over to the mocktail cabinet to replenish my drink.
Me: “Club soda, tonic, juice, bitters. No booze?”
Vic: “I don’t drink anymore. Seven months sober. You want the real thing?”
“Ugh, no,” I mumbled, resuming my seat.
Vic: “Can I ask you a personal question?”
Me: “Vic, I’ve passed out drunk in your VIP section. I’ve puked in your ladies room. And I’ve cried like a weenie right in front of you. I think you’ve earned the privilege of asking me a personal question.”
Vic: “So . . . you never had sex with this girl?”
Me: “She wanted to, and I said, Let’s wait until we’re married.”
Vic: “Fuck ‘er. You got options. You’re a college professor — a single man — at one of the biggest schools in Chicago. I’m sure the co-eds are lining up for a piece o’ teach.”
Me: “Eva was special.”
Vic: “How so?”
Me: “Well . . . she spoke well. She dressed well. She comes from a great family.”
Vic: “Family is important to you?”
Me: “Yes, I wanna have kids.”
Vic: “Well then, you don’t want a debutante.”
Me: “Oh?”
Vic: “You want a woman of character. A hot, fertile woman . . . of great depth and character.”
Me: “Where are they?”
Vic: “Good question.”
He fixed himself another mocktail.
The Lava Lamp In Vic’s Office
Vic: “Hey, I gotta get back to work. But . . . this may sound weird, but . . . like you have nothing better to do, but . . . why don’t you start spending a couple hours every Saturday night with me here at the club, ’round midnight? I could use the company. And I can introduce you to plenty of hot, fertile women.”
Had it been anyone else, I would have immediately said no. But Vic and I were obviously kindred souls in search of . . . what, I didn’t yet know. But I liked the guy. Besides, I didn’t have anything better to do. At least until I figured out how to create some sort of courtly love data set to apply to my dissertation. And I was currently a cuckolded king too cuckoo to be by myself for too long.
Me: “Sounds like a plan. Thanks for the drink.”
I placed the tumbler on the cabinet and headed out.
Vic: “Aren’t you forgetting something?”
Me: “What’s that?”
My keys had already been air mailed to me before I finished turning around.
Me: “Whoa!”
Vic: “Good catch!”
On the way home — cruising up Lake Shore in my BMW Roadster (2000 model, Y2K special) — I remembered that I forgot to ask Vic how I got home. And that’s a curious phrase, isn’t it — “remembered that I forgot”? But I realized that it must have been Vic who picked me up after I’d fallen asleep by the dumpster outside the club. And it was Vic, of course, who had taken me home and somehow gotten me into my newly acquired vintage two-bedroom condo on N. Pine Grove Ave. behind the Anshe Emet Synagogue. Newly acquired with one of those easy housing bubble mortgages that were soon to become world-famous.
But I still didn’t remember getting the tattoo.
This some kinda soap opera?
Hi Kissonia. Thank you for your question. Charm School is a romantic comedy for the web. Think of it as a TV show for the web. Only you gotta read it.
Hello Kissonia. Thanks for reading the 4th installment of Charm School. Have you read the other 3?
Naw, I just saw it and checked it out. Not my kinda thing.
No problem. Another time, perhaps.