Andrew grasps the metal handle of a nondescript door. Its horizontal wood paneling muffles the sound of club music and when it opens just an inch we undergo a sensory bombardment. Inside, it is de rigueur dark. Blood red seats line the walls and a medieval looking chandelier hangs above. The intent of the decorating scheme evades me; it is neither hedonistic enough to be truly Roman kitsch, nor classy enough to claim polite influence.
On each of three walls are thick slabs of marble etched with a tale of some Roman man. I don’t pay much attention to it, as it doesn’t necessarily command notice. Club art. Club décor. Bullshit. It is the artistic equivalent of cave drawings or bathroom graffiti, but instead of “FUCK YOU LIZ SHERIDAN…AND YOUR MOM” the marble favors Roman numerals.
I ask Andrew what happens when these bars inevitably go out of business and they strip the place down to 2x4s, only to put in another alcoholic theme park. Andrew shrugs. “Trash?” he offers. We contemplate possible alternative uses for the botched nonrenewable resources covering the walls; the best I can come up with being to turn them upside down and use them as community kitchen tables. Or spray paint them gold. Whichever.
The two of us stand in the corner of the small room, talking about mushrooms and mushroom tea, where and when to consume, past experiences and funny stories. This conversation runs for about twenty-five minutes.
Andrew flags down the owner – or part owner … whatever this guy is. He reminds me of our French friend, Philippe, only older and twitchy. He is foreign, although I cannot place from where. He used to be in a more noble profession but ended up making a shit ton of money and got into investing. Hotels, nightclubs, things with social cache. To be sure, the man is perfectly suited for it. He engages immediately with us, as though we’ve all been friends for years. We sit down and he moves his eyes between the both of us, careful to pay each party equal attention. He touches our legs gently and without motive when trying to emphasize a point or indicate his deep and sincere excitement. It’s an art what he does.
After showing us pictures of his newest venture, he offers to explain the marble decorations I had been so blasé about. And the story goes:
You see, behind every great man is a woman.
I nod my head.
So the woman will not marry this man because he isn’t wealthy.
I laugh again, mostly because this is what I am supposed to do. He moves on to the next tablet.
So the man, he goes out and battles all of these other men.
I look up at the chicken scratch drawings of men in skirts stabbing each other with thick knives.
But the woman, she says this is not enough for her.
In the corner of the stone, a stern looking woman with what I think are exposed breasts stares blankly into the dark club. The man weeps into cubist hands.
So the man goes out and becomes very rich. And, in the end…
At this point, we are standing on top of the banquettes so as to better see over the heads of the badly dressed boozers at the marble slabs across from us.
…He is an old man, surrounded by beautiful women taking care of him.
It’s like New York, or any other career-driven city for that matter. I do not question the ending of the story having left a big, gaping plot hole as to what happened to the “great woman” who was “behind” her man – a gold-digging wretch who turned her love down for being poor and then ended up getting screwed in the end. But I suppose the moral of the story doesn’t really matter; after all, we’re sitting in the basement of a restaurant, drinking vodka tonics for fuck’s sake, not walking the halls of the MoMA.
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