Oliver suddenly loses his balance. He sways like he might fall.
I catch him. “Are you all right?”
“I—I think so.” He looks into my eyes for balance. Takes a deep breath of New Year’s air. “The strangest thing just happened. I felt... I suppose it’s what they call déjà vu. The feeling that I’ve seen him before.”
“Who?” I gaze over at the limousine. The eyes are still on us. “The person in the limo? Well, you probably have. It must be some celebrity. I hear Rock Hudson gets around. Could you imagine? What if it’s Rock Hudson? I’d love to meet him!”
“Bram, can we go home?”
I feel too electrified by the possibility of who this mysterious figure is not to go in. Archie calls us forward. The doorman pats us down. Waves us in. Archie pays the entrance fee for all three of us.
“Bram, please. I don’t want to be here. I have a terrible feeling.”
“Let’s just see if it’s Rock Hudson and then we’ll go. One hour. If you’re not having fun in one hour, we’ll go home. I promise.”
Those are the last words I speak before the music makes it impossible for us to hear a word. One more promise.
Oliver. London. January 1. 1982.
Heaven is hell. The music does feel like it’s inside me, in the worst possible way. Like an alien invader entering my body. It clangs at my temples. Pierces my heart. Each beat feels like a blade. Sharp and constructed. Created not by humans but by machines. The bass is too loud, too deep. It makes the whole place shake. The vibration it creates feels like a premonition of a terrifying future. Mother always said music was our way of communicating with God. This feels more like a conversation with the devil.
Archie disappears on the dance floor. Rips his shirt off. Kisses a stranger. Then another. A possessed-looking man leans against one of the speakers, his pupils dilated. He sways his head from side to side so his left ear is against the speaker, then his right. Left again, then right. I can imagine the way the sound travels from one side of his consciousness to another, through his analytical left brain, then through his creative right brain.
“We’re overdressed,” Bram says, his eyes on the dance floor, where shirtless men rub up against each other. Bare chests, some hairy, some smooth, all toned. The smell of sweat and wild abandon. Bram unbuttons the asymmetrical jacket Lily made for him. Takes it off and tucks it into the waist of his pants. “Come on, join me.”
I’m in a trance. Everyone around me seems so happy to be here. Smiles on their faces and exhilaration in their eyes. Arms raised high in the air, like they’re reaching for heaven itself. I don’t hear what they hear. What I hear is the sound of liberation as industry. I don’t see a dance floor. I see a factory of uniformity. I see people celebrating the death of the individuality they fought for.
I tear my jacket off. Not because I want to be one more shirtless object in this mechanized stew of lust. But because I feel trapped. Claustrophobic. I can’t breathe.
“I need a bathroom,” I say.
“I can’t hear you!” Bram screams into my ear.
I put my lips on his ear and yell. “BATHROOM!”
Bram catches Archie’s eye. He points toward the bathrooms to indicate where we’re headed. Archie heads toward us. Seems to know instinctively that I’m unwell. He puts an arm around me. Speaks some words I can’t hear.
Bram and Archie each take one of my hands and lead me toward a bathroom. Around us, solitary dancers punch the air with their fists. A release of aggression. As if they’re fighting an invisible enemy. Archie uses his free arm to push past men sucking on each other’s lips like they’re trying to inhale each other. Fear, that’s what I hear in the sound of this place. Fear of what’s to come.
People living like they’re not sure there will be a tomorrow.
Destroying themselves before someone or something else can do it for them.
The music, miraculously, becomes softer as we get close to the bathrooms. We enter one bathroom and find a group of men in a circle, throwing their heads back wildly as they snort something. God no, not this.
I feel my stomach turn.
Dissonant chords play in my mind.
“I think I’m going to be sick,” I croak.
Bram holds me tighter. Archie pushes his way into another bathroom where a handsome man with bulging muscles, wearing nothing but tight white underwear, washes his hands. “Well, hello, handsome,” the man says to Archie.
“Not right now,” Archie snaps.
Bram leads me to the toilet. Tenderly helps me crouch. I open my mouth and vomit.
“I’m so sorry,” I say. “I’m ruining the fun.”
