We balked outside the hotel. “No way this is it…” I said, double taking the lounge on the other side of the glass: the maroon wallpaper and plush carpet were seething with money. It was really cold out on the street, however, and we’d just come all the way in from Astoria to midtown to see what our friend promised was a “cover-free Gypsy Jazz” night.

Pushing through the revolving doors the hotel lobby stank of perfume, like it was someone’s job to spray some kind of Chanel “eau-du-butt” everywhere. My mind immediately wondered who took a stinky poop and was paying for the privilege of a large cover up.

The lounge was even worse. Walking in I felt highly conscious of my cotton T-shirt and BEACON High school sweatshirt that I quickly and awkwardly pulled over my unwashed hair. Jackson and I chose a place in front of the musicians who were sound checking. I sat down on what can only be described as a bed-chair. The kind of bench that is so big you debate weather to slouch down or sit straight up because there is no middle ground. I went for the full slouch and tried to pretend I had a lot of money.

Looking around the room I saw nothing but up-scale douche, and like the eau-de-butt smell, I kept getting the feeling that someone was farting, but was too rich to let others smell it. I fingered my engagement ring and adjusted my coat, trying not to let the leather seat slip me onto the floor.

One beautiful waitress after another waited on us. I ordered a Tawny 12 year port that arrived in the smallest, longest, most grotesque port glass I’d ever seen. I laughed when the waitress brought it over. “This is so not me,” I whispered to Jackson, he glanced back at me with his untrimmed bed-head hair and cotton V-neck and agreed.

The funny thing about gypsy jazz is that it wasn’t meant to be played to a room full of farting rich people. It was a music meant for people to make songs about the wealthy and laugh at them. It struck me as ironic that this incredible 4 piece band was playing romping tunes of the poor on their stringed instruments to the super rich, only to go home to their modest apartments in the outer boroughs later that night stinking of the terrible perfume and thumbing the cash they made. I, however, was sitting on the bed-bench getting tipsier and tipsier and wishing I was surrounded by like-minded young adults with a big plate of cheese in front of me, sitting somewhere with a roaring fire, the smell of roast pork and a lot of not-so-rich people; instead of sipping a new 16 dollar cocktail.

Luckily, my wish for more like-minded people came true as more friends showed up, forming a group of rag-tag “kids” sipping their 9 dollar beers and tapping their fingers to the jazz.

I got up to use the bathroom at one point, casually walking to the toilet past over-sized vases of purple flowers that one musician mistakenly called Lavender (but they weren’t… I don’t know what they were, honestly) when I walked past what looked like a large blob of white semen hanging from the ceiling. If this didn’t get everyone’s attention in the hotel, then I don’t know what could. I literally stopped in my tracks and stared and the (what do I call this thing, statue?) blob and stared. “What the fuck?” I said to no one, inhaling another round of heady eau-du-butt. I laughed, the sound of the gypsy jazz floating out from the lounge and reminding me that I had to pee.

After coming back from my hiatus at the women’s room (where, by the way, one can watch themselves pee into the toilet in large room-sized mirrors!!) I turned to Jackson and remarked that when we do eventually get ridiculously wealthy, I never want to come to places where my farts don’t small and odes to God’s white and holy cum drip from the ceiling. Nope.

January 12, 2015 at 4:38 am by Natalie Allen