The night is vibrant. Streetlights are glowing, a breeze is breezing, a crescent moon hangs mystically in the sky. All five of us in the car are ready.
“I’m so excited to dance,” Josh says to me, practically vibrating. “I haven’t been out dancing in forever.”
“You’ve never come out with us before, right?” Allicia asks from the back.
We’re in an Escalade, and she’s sequestered in the very last row with Magda, who’s still struggling to tie her shoes.
“No, never,” Josh answers. “I’m always working.”
Such is the life of a full-time showgirl—every Friday and Saturday night, bitch has to work, always missing out on the party.
“You’re gonna love this,” Sophie says beside him. “Our nights out are legendary.”
“So, I’ve heard,” Josh says, winking at me.
A light touch of pressure bears down on the back of my neck. I hope tonight delivers.
“Alright,” the Uber driver says from the front. “We’re here.”
“Oh, shit,” we all say, everyone taken by surprise.
We’ve pulled to a stop on a totally random looking street. Cracked pavement, open dumpsters, overgrown weeds. There’s hardly anyone on the sidewalk.
“Uh, thanks!”
We tumble out of the car, which seems impossibly filled with people. Magda’s the last one to emerge, limbs loose like an overgrown puppy.
“Let’s fucking go!” she says.
Allicia whoops in agreement.
The five of us file into the bar, which is a tiny, nondescript looking little place. Inside, there’s no one.
“Um…”
All of us look at each other in confusion. Where’s the party?
“Check this out!” Sophie says.
They’ve found a little room opposite the bar, complete with vintage armchairs and taxidermy.
“Cozy,” Allicia says.
But not what we’re looking for.
“Guys, look!” Magda calls, a few rooms ahead of us.
She’s found a spot with wood paneling, two couches, and a TV from 1987. String lights illuminate the walls.
“It looks like Stranger Things in here,” Josh quips.
It does. And yet. Surely, there’s something we’ve missed. I retrace my steps, back past the taxidermy, past a handful of bathrooms, past the bar. I’m almost out the front door again when I see it.
“Here,” I call over my shoulder. “It’s here.”
There’s a door we’ve missed. It’s mostly glass, as if it’ll open into an old-timey detective’s office. Just one word is painted on it. UPSTAIRS.
“It must be up there,” I say.
Everyone agrees. We get ourselves drinks, then pass through the door, one by one. A rickety staircase awaits. Josh goes up first, followed by Magda, then me, then Sophie, then finally, Allicia. The staircase is too narrow to ascend as a group.
“What’s happening?” Sophie asks, still halfway down the steps.
Josh, who’s reached the top, peers into a room. It’s absolutely filled with people.
“No one’s dancing,” Magda observes, a step behind Josh.
Shit. How could this be?
“Oh my god,” Josh giggles.
“What?” we all say in unison.
He turns to us, his face lit up with irony.
“It’s a drag show.”
Allicia and Sophie snort laugh, shaking their heads.
“Of course, it is,” they say in unison, half sarcastic.
With that, Josh slithers into the tiny, packed room where the show is happening. The crowd accepts him intrinsically, as if they can feel he’s a queen, a sister, even though he’s off duty. Magda makes a move to follow him, then changes her mind, gestures to let me go ahead of her. I take her up on it, sliding past her body, slinking up against the back wall. There’s a queen on the catwalk, but I can barely see what she’s doing. The room is too small, the bodies too dense. I turn back almost as soon as I get in.
“I’m gonna go smoke,” I say to her, then fly down the stairs.
She follows, Sophie and Allicia trailing behind.
Outside on the sidewalk, a whole world of queers is gathered beneath a cloud of weed and cigarette smoke. Where were they when we got here? Beside us, the dumpster rattles with rats.
“What’s our next move?” I ask, lighting up a joint.
“Do you think the dancing happens later?” Magda asks, hopeful, naïve.
“No,” Sophie says, blunt. “This place closes in an hour.”
Time, in Purgatory, seems to bend and stretch. An hour had passed in what felt like five minutes.
“We could try The Bush?” Allicia suggests. “They were supposed to be having some kinda something tonight, right?”
“It’s always packed there,” I agree. “Seems like a safe bet.”
As if on cue, Josh emerges from inside. He looks refreshed, rejuvenated, revitalized.
“How was the show?” everyone asks.
“Oh, you know.” He smiles, flicking a wrist. “I love to support the girls.”
A whole gaggle of gays emerges from inside, the queen who’s just performed among them. She’s holding court.
“Oh, you were incredible in there,” Josh says as she passes by. “I’m a drag queen too.”
The two of them get into a whole conversation, wrists and eyebrows flying. Beside them, a small circle of tough-looking gay boys gathers, checking them out.
“I’m gonna go make friends,” Magda says to me.
And then she’s off, talking to the toughest looking gay boy—a mustache daddy in a white tank top and chains.
“Is she trying to pick him up?” Sophie asks, incredulous.
I throw them a sideways glance, lifting one eyebrow. The feeling of Magda’s tongue in Sophie’s mouth is probably fresh in their mind.
“Maybe,” I shrug, taking another pull off our joint.
And then Magda’s waving us all over, the dykes and the queens and the daddies all coalescing into one big circle, and Josh has shifted from talking to his sister to flirting with a cute, bespectacled boy in a 70s knit polo. I love this.
“So,” I say to one of the gay boys Magda’s been chatting up. “What do you do?”
He looks at me like I am the physical embodiment of boredom.
“This and that,” he says, running a hand through his hair.
I nod, hoping he’ll say more. He doesn’t.
Magda slides an arm around my shoulder, and I lean against her, letting myself dissociate a little bit, to relax. The night is not going as planned, but everyone is smiling. About half the folks are laughing. Josh and Bespectacled Boy are making eyes at each other; it’s twinkly, it’s bright. I want them to kiss. Magda is, I think, fully flirting with the tough boys, which is glowy, affirming, sweet. The other side of her gender is showing, and they see her; they’re accepting her as one of their own. Allicia and Sophie are laughing with Bespectacled Boy’s friends, one of whom, I notice, is wearing a shirt with a clown on it. I suppress a laugh. No one else notices.
“OK, so,” Josh says definitively. “Where are we going next?”
For a moment, silence. Then, I realize he’s looking at me.
“The Bush?” I say, looking at Allicia.
“It’s always poppin’ there,” she agrees.
“Done,” Josh says. “Let’s go.”
But not all of us will make it to Location Number Two.
“Friends,” Sophie interrupts. “I’m sorry.” They hold their hands up like peace signs. “I’m tapping out.”
“Noooooooo,” Josh whines.
Off they go, calling a car quicker than the rest of us can hug them goodbye. A few moments later, our own car arrives. The remaining four of us climb in. It whisks us away into the night.
“What happened with that boy?” I ask as soon as we all climb into the backseat.
“Oh.” Josh waves a dismissive hand through the air. “Nothing.”
“He liked you,” Magda says from the passenger seat.
“He did,” Allicia agrees. “I was waiting for you to kiss.”
“Why didn’t you?!” I practically screech.
“Oh, please.” He shakes his head. “That mustache daddy liked you, though,” he says to Magda, pointedly changing the subject.
“He did,” I echo.
Magda turns away, blushing.
“Alright,” the driver says, pulling up. “Here we are.”
Again, we’re caught off guard. The streets seem too quiet. But there’s no mistaking it—this is The Bush. We climb out of the car, flash our IDs, slide through the front door, and…
“Where is everyone?”
The dance floor is completely, utterly empty, except for one queer who appears to be the poor DJ’s girlfriend.
Josh starts cackling.
“I’ve never seen it like this,” I say to him, feeling deeply incompetent.
“Me either,” Allicia agrees. “This is so weird.”
The bar’s emptiness makes it violently, unnaturally loud. There’s nothing to absorb the music—no bodies, no beverages, no hair, clothing, accessories—just hard walls and metal barstools, echoing everything.
“Let’s go outside,” Magda says, instantly overstimulated.
And when we do, Allicia starts screaming.
“Bitch!!!!!”
Josh and Magda jump, looking terrified, confused, bewildered. Allicia’s voice has reached peak soprano levels, an almost supersonic frequency, and she’s abandoned our group, running into the street. To greet—
“B!” I scream, following her.
I recognize that Jeep, recognize that mullet on the person in the driver’s seat. It’s our friend B, a small, wiry masc who could cut you like a knife, and they’re putting their car in park in the middle of the street, they’re jumping out of the driver’s seat to hug Allicia, and then to hug me.
“What are you doing here?!” Allicia and I both screech.
The odds are negligible. The likelihood, zero. And yet. We’ve found each other on the same block at the same time for no discernible reason, despite the fact that everyone else in this city seems to have stayed home tonight.
“I’m coming from an orgy,” B says, hilariously. “It sucked. Where are y’all headed?”
“Metropolitan?” I suggest, based on geography and the spread of genders we’re interested in and the fact that it, like The Bush, is usually popping.
“Let’s fucking go!” B says.
All four of us pile into their teeny-tiny Jeep, which is really more of a two-or-three seater, but now it’s an absolute clown car, bursting with all of us in it.
“What have you guys been up to??” B asks as we pull away.
Everyone starts telling our tale at once. How much of it is really intelligible, all of us talking on top of each other, is unclear. But enough, it seems, because B’s laughing, and if I’m clocking it right, stealing sideways glances at Allicia, and now we’re at Metropolitan, and we’re all tumbling out of this car again, Magda with her long ass legs and me behind her and Josh, finally, looking like the last jack-in-the-box to spring out of captivity, and we’re all walking into Metropolitan, we barely even had to flash our IDs, and there’s…
Next to no one inside.
Somewhere, a smoke machine is operating at full capacity, turning the whole place into an otherwise empty sea of mist. Pop music bops through the speakers. In the corner, a small group of what appears to be—heterosexuals??—are playing pool. No one is on the dance floor, except Allicia, who does a dramatic twirl through a plume of smoke. It shifts and swirls around her.
“What is going on tonight?”
I can’t believe how dead this place—this whole city—is tonight. It’s unhinged; it’s bizarre.
Josh is just cackling, irony in his eyes.
“I’m so sorry,” I say. “I swear, it’s not usually like this.”
We are a crew who dances more weekends than not. We do not struggle to find parties. And yet. On the one night it matters, the one night it counts—
“Don’t be,” Josh says, interrupting my inner monologue. “For real. This is so funny.”
I can tell by the look on his face that he means it.
We all order drinks, because what else can we do? At least the music’s decent. And now Josh is flirting with the bartender, and B and Allicia are giggling about something, and Magda’s—
“What up,” she says, appearing out of nowhere.
Her hands are full of something.
“Is that—?” I start to ask.
“A gluten-free bagel,” she grunts before I can finish my question, her mouth full of it.
“A what?” Allicia screeches. She’s beside Magda so fast it’s giving Looney Tunes.
“I got you one too,” she says, handing Allicia her own gluten-free bagel.
“Oh my god.” Allicia’s eyes are lit all the way up. She takes a bite. “You’re a fucking angel.”
“I know.”
“When did you even leave?” I ask. I hadn’t realized she’d been gone.
But Magda just keeps eating, brows low, ripping huge bites of bagel off, her jaw at work. I never knew a person could eat in a gendered way before I met Magda. She is never more boy than when she’s chewing.
“This is so fucking good,” she mutters.
And then the invisible hands of the night’s clock turn, a chime striking silently in the air.
“Alright,” B says. “I’m out.”
“Me too!”
Allicia waves goodbye with her one bagel-free hand, and the two of them disappear out the door. Magda, Josh, and I are the last ones standing. We look at each other, eyes glittering with laughter and bewilderment. This is, without a doubt, one of the weirdest nights.
“Let’s hit up Union Pool,” Magda says.
Josh and I agree, because it’s three in the morning and we have one more hour to find a dance floor. We’re close enough to walk, so we do, Magda leading the way, still chewing on that bagel. At some point, she chucks the balled-up wax paper it came in into a garbage can. Up ahead is the overpass that preempts Union Pool. We cross beneath it.
“This looks a little more alive,” I say, hopeful, naïve.
We flash our IDs at the doorman, slip inside.
“LOL,” Magda says, out loud.
It too, is dead.
“Maybe…” I say, leading the way past the bar, toward the dance floor, which is an entirely separate room that we can’t see. I’m imagining a crowd inside, a DJ with the life still in their eyes, a vibe, a mood.
“Closed, guys.”
Instead, there’s a bouncer guarding the door. Behind him, a DJ dragging a bunch of equipment emerges. He looks tired; specifically, the kind of exhausted that descends after spending a few hours bored out of your mind. It’s been dead all night.
“Shit.”
I flop down on the wooden bleachers in Union Pool’s backyard.
“Welp,” Josh says, dropping beside me. “We had a night.”
“We did.”
“Guys!” Magda waves us over. “C’mere!”
She’s made friends with some more random gay boys. It’s unclear to me if she’s trying to pick one up, or if she’s trying to wing for Josh. Either way, it’s not working. They look deeply uninterested.
“Let’s go play nice,” Josh says, pulling a joint out of his fake Goyard clutch.
We light it up and make small talk for a bit, passing the joint between us. Above us, the sky begins to lighten. The night is ending, and yet. It feels like it hardly began.
“Closing time!” the security guards call. “Everyone out!”
The long journey home stretches out before us.
“Pizza,” I say.
The three of us filter out of Union Pool with the rest of the crowd, then make our way to Joe’s on Bedford. Magda leads the way.
“What a weird night,” I say to Josh, twenty minutes later.
We’re eating our slices on the street, folded in half over flimsy paper plates. We’re also walking Magda home; she’s half a block ahead of us, half running, occasionally jumping off buildings, working off some of the party energy that never got spent. Josh looks at me sideways, a gleam in his eye.
“You know, it was kinda perfect,” he says, between bites of pizza.
“Oh, yeah?”
But before he can answer me, he’s yelling at Magda up ahead of us.
“Don’t touch that!” he screams.
She’s found a discarded, rolling office chair and is kicking it down the sidewalk.
“That definitely has bedbugs,” Josh calls.
She looks at him, defiant, and plants one knee on the chair’s upholstered seat, pushing off with her other foot to roll down the street.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” we both mutter, laughing.
“Anyway,” he says. “Tonight.”
“Yes.”
I take another bite of pizza, a drop of grease rolling out of the crease where I’ve folded it. It hits the paper plate with a splat.
“Tonight was very appropriate. Because everything was…”
He waits a beat.
“Pretty Lamé.”
“Oh my god.”
The two of us start wheeze laughing, the horror of the pun paired with the truth of it all. It’s heinous. It’s perfect.
“We kind of never left Purgatory,” I say, gesturing to the world around us.
There’s no one else on the street. The stars are beginning to wink out, and the moon has disappeared, sunken behind the buildings.
“We never did!” Josh says, almost operatic. “We’re in Purgatory right now.”
Indeed, this is the deadest Brooklyn has ever been. And we’re the last clowns to get the memo, running through the streets all night looking for a thrill. The only thrill there ever was, it turns out, was us.
“Do you guys wanna go to the pier?” Magda asks from up ahead. “The view of the city is amazing.”
It is. I’ve seen it. And it’s only half a block past her building. But we aren’t interested.
“I’ve seen the city,” Josh says. “We’re going home.”
“Really? But—”
“We’re going home,” I cut in.
I’m done walking around, chasing something that’s not there. I’m ready to take my clown shoes off and hurl myself into bed.
“Alright,” she says, a little defeated.
“Thank you for a lovely evening,” Josh says as he hugs her goodbye, laughter in his voice.
“For real?” she says, wincing a little bit.
“For real.” He grins.
“It was pretty fun, wasn’t it?” She frowns hard. “Like, we had a good time, despite…” She gestures aggressively at the whole world. “Everything.”
“We did,” he agrees.
A car pulls up to whisk us away.
Josh and I get in, the final two clowns of the evening. The sun starts to rise as we drive east, away from the waterfront where Magda lives, deeper and deeper into central Brooklyn.
“Pretty Lamé,” I mutter, laughing to myself.
Josh starts giggling beside me.
It couldn’t have been more appropriate. Despite our very best efforts, Pretty Lamé’s last night in New York couldn’t have gone any other way.
“It was perfect,” Josh says again.
The driver pulls up to our apartment building.
We drag ourselves out of the car, up the stoop, up the three flights of stairs that stand between us and home. We stumble into the apartment like two limp puppets.
Pretty Lamé’s last night in New York was, indeed, pretty fucking lamé.