CHAPTER 2
“I came here tonight because when you realize you want to spend the rest of your life killing somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible.”
—Not When Harry Met Sally
After a montage-worthy rotation of outfits, and two breakdowns that end with Laurie and me agreeing the fashion industry is a sick, twisted terror on society, I end up wearing the first dress I tried on.
It’s my favorite: Pretty Woman red with sheer rose petal–like sleeves and a square neckline that—teamed with a well-fitted underwire bra—makes my boobs look absolutely fantastic.
When I did a little twirl in front of the only full-length mirror in our apartment before we left, it flared out above my knees in a way that rivals Dirty Dancing.
Of course, it might turn out to be too dressy for an event whose dress code consisted of a bullet point list for the men and a vague “cocktail attire” command for the women.
Of course, I bought it on sale, and even then, cursed its existence each time my credit card bill turned up for the next few months.
Of course, it’s the first week of November and the coat I have to wear completely dampens the effect of the dress.
But that doesn’t matter. Because it makes me feel confident and sexy and like I can hold my own through one hundred minutes of anonymous dating—even if that little self-doubting voice was the one that made me take it off the first time.
If watching rom-coms has taught me anything, it’s that you don’t dim yourself for fear of shining too bright.
You wear the dress, you sing out loud, you take the leap.
And if watching slashers has taught me anything, it’s that you take chances whenever you can.
Run out the door, grab the knife, double tap the killer in the head with a sawed-off shotgun.
That’s why I do my makeup like a Hitchcock lead and pretend it wasn’t a fluke when my hair falls over my shoulders in bouncy honey-blond curls after I release it from the clutches of the curling ribbon.
Even if tonight is a bust, Laurie and I will walk off arm in arm in the direction of the nearest gyros purveyor, giggling like we’re freshman in college again as we detail the highs and lows of our round-robin dating experience.
New York traffic decides to play nice, but as we make our way across Brooklyn, I wonder if my meticulous roommate has typed in the wrong address.
The route becomes familiar in that hazy déjà vu kind of way, and when I look at Laurie, I catch her eyes narrowing in recognition as we get closer and closer to our destination.
When she steps out of the Uber before me, looking stunning in a black, slippery silk jumpsuit that moonlights as a vest and wide-legged pantsuit, she props her fists on her hips, turning her head to survey the street.
“Huh…” she says as I slide myself off the leather seat and step onto the sidewalk carefully. The cocktail attire dress code knocked out any chance of wearing comfortable shoes, thus Laurie and I are both wearing heels that were designed for sitting rather than walking.
“We’ve been here before,” she says confidently, and it draws my attention away from watching our Uber take off down the street.
The taillights look like two glowing eyes retreating into the darkness and the visibility of our surroundings becomes highly dependent on the dim light of the streetlamps that curve up and over where we idle on the sidewalk.
A brief invasive thought of how they look like the metal claws of Freddy Krueger’s gloves crosses my mind before I fully focus on the building in front of us.
“Really?” I ask. “I think we’d remember a singles thing at a club.”
The other events we’ve been to have been in art studios, bars, restaurants: warmly lit, open plan, first-floor spaces with large windows so you can gaze out at the street if your date is boring.
But the building in front of us looks like it used to be a warehouse or something.
It looms large over the dark, empty street.
The neighboring clubs are closed, in stasis until Friday, and while this whole street would’ve been bustling on the weekend, right now, on a Tuesday night, it just looks like a ghost town.
“No, I mean, I feel like I just stepped back in time.”
I squint at the two heavy metal doors—one open, one closed—in front of us.
The sign above them, a romantic tangle of glowing blue letters that spell out “Serendipity,” is the only one that’s lit on the whole street.
I’d remember a name like that. Cocking my head to the side, I consider the double doors.
There is something about them that rings a bell, though.
“It is familiar in that fuzzy ‘this place is the reason I don’t drink Kamikazes anymore’ kind of way,” I say, and that is the prompt Laurie needs. She clicks her fingers rapidly at the sign as if the name is on the tip of her tongue, before pointing and exclaiming, “Cravin’!”
I’m almost knocked over by a wave of memories flooding in at the name of an earlier iteration of the club. Very fuzzy memories. Memories of strong drinks, bad kisses, glass crunching under shoes, and deep and meaningful conversations with strangers in the bathroom.
“Cravinnnnnnn’!” I reply like it’s a call and response.
We haven’t been here in years, but this was the place when we were twenty-one.
For a few months, at least. Back before we lived together.
Before I started my master’s and Laurie got her first of many internships, and weekends became less about going out and more about discussing whether pursuing careers in the arts and academia were reasonable life choices.
“I wonder if it still looks the same inside,” she muses.
“Surely not.”
The thing that was such a draw about Cravin’ was all the spaces.
Not “space.” Spaces. The building must have been converted from a factory—one with offices and maybe even lodging for workers—because across the three levels of the club, there were hallways that led to dead ends, rooms with love seats, alcoves with booths, and a whole range of other kinds of hidey-holes.
Aside from the huge, open space of the dance floor, the rest of the building—the perimeter of the club on the ground level, the bar in the basement, and the mezzanine on the top level—was like a mouse maze.
It was the highlight of a drunk girl’s night and the best way to avoid the attentions of a guy who refused to take a hint—or find a covert spot to hook up with a guy who was able to take a very different kind of hint.
“Let’s go check it out.” Laurie grins at me, grabbing the sleeve of my coat and pulling me toward the entrance. Once we make it inside, I realize the cool blue signage above the doors was a ruse because the interior of Serendipity is red.
Like, Suspiria red. Carrie red. The iconic river of blood spewing out of an elevator in Stanley Kubrick’s seminal masterpiece The Shining red.
Cravin’ was all black and brushed metal and slick minimalist design.
Serendipity looks like the set designer of Moulin Rouge! took LSD and cleaned out every velvet and gas lamp supplier in the state.
The coat check is still in the same place and a fist pops up from beneath the counter like a hand out of a grave as we step into the entrance.
There’s a white charging cord trapped between the clenched fingers, an exclamation of “Fucking finally,” and then a head appears.
A triumphant smile stretches across the face of a woman a few years younger than us before she catches sight of Laurie and me on the other side of the counter.
“Oh, sorry.” She flushes, holding the charging cord to her chest like the precious treasure it is.
“I’ve been looking for this for an hour.
Somehow our normal cleaning crew was canceled this morning, and whatever last-minute contractors they were able to get in have messed everything up.
I can’t find anything.” She untangles the cable before plugging it into the iPad in front of her.
“Sorry again. Are you here for our speed date tonight?”
“Yeah, we are,” I answer. “Jamie Prescott and Laurie Hamilton.”
“IDs?”
She gives them a passing glance when we offer them, more preoccupied with finding our names on her screen and quickly ticking them off with a tap of her finger.
“I just have to check that you know you’ve booked our hetero event for the twenty-five to thirty-five age bracket. We have a queer speed date, same age bracket, taking place next Tuesday. I know the site can be confusing, some people just see the age bracket—”
“Tragically, we are both straight,” Laurie says drily, and I can’t help but snort.
The woman’s pinched face softens in amusement. “Can’t relate. Though all the men who have come through so far seem nice. Normal.”
Whatever that means.
“Let’s get you checked in before you go downstairs.”
She takes our coats, our phones, our handbags, and Laurie’s smartwatch.
This was what attracted Laurie to this event in the first place.
Apparently, taking away our devices and belongings encourages more robust conversation by removing the temptation to glance at your notifications, or dig around in your purse, avoiding eye contact.
It seems like overkill, but I’m capable of a digital detox for a couple of hours.
I watch our phones go into marked bags with the same number as our coats before they’re placed into a lockbox, the coat check attendant detailing the particulars of our night as she bullies our coats onto hangers and carries them to a rack at the back of the room.
Ten men, ten women, ten minutes per date and just a handful of rules:
No digital devices.
Don’t discuss your day job (“a person is more than their profession”).
Keep it light and polite.
Move on when the bell rings.
It’s easy enough to remember, and as an academic and former teacher’s pet, I can follow a rule like my life depends on it.
“The ladies will have cocktail hour downstairs in the basement bar, while the gentlemen have been directed up to the mezzanine bar. Your host, Marion, will be available for any questions before the men are escorted down to meet you. As you know, your drinks are included in the ticket price, so please drink responsibly.” The harried tone of her voice and the distant look in her eyes tells me these instructions are part of her muscle memory, but I don’t hold it against her when she adds, a little wearily, “This is the first time we’ve hosted an event here and we’re a little understaffed.
Our security guy is running late, so until he gets here, let Marion or one of the bartenders know if you feel uncomfortable at any time. ”
With that warning, she gestures to the long, thin staircase that runs up along the wall to the mezzanine and down to the basement.
It’s just wide enough to allow guys ample opportunities to grab on to a female waist to “get past” on their journey up or down a level, and there’s another set on the other side of the club.
Each set of stairs makes the shape of a giant arrow, the one closest to us pointing to the front of the building—and the only exit I remember in this three-floor adult playground—while the other is a point in the opposite direction.
I glance toward the entry to the dance floor, and of course it’s empty, but when I lift my gaze to the mezzanine, I see movement.
It’s just far away enough, and the lighting dim enough, that I can make out the silhouettes of tonight’s bachelors as they socialize in front of the bar.
They circle around up there, looking down at the open space like it’s a gladiator ring and the entertainment is going to burst onto the floor and draw blood for their amusement.
“Let’s go,” Laurie says as I’m staring into the darkness, giving me a swift tap on the butt that sends me in the direction of the staircase.
I hand her my coat check ticket to keep safe in the pocket of her jumpsuit, glancing back up at the mezzanine just before we dip below ground level.
It’s then I catch a glimpse of a shadow leaning against the railing, the dark shape of a head dipped in our direction.
It’s a blink-and-miss moment, but as I walk down the stairs, the bottom of my shoes sticking to the thin coat of dried alcohol that coats the steps like varnish, a prickle breaks out across the back of my neck.
The shiver is followed by a brief clench in my stomach, an anxious pulse I’m used to experiencing at the beginning of these phone-free events, when my brain wants to flick through all the bad scenarios of how tonight could play out in some misguided attempt at self-preservation.
I choose to ignore it as I follow Laurie down to the basement level.
After all… What’s the worst that could happen?