It always starts with the earrings. They are the first things to go. What starts the evening as a sexy accessory ends the evening as a tinkling, irksome, hair-catching annoyance. Usually in the car ride home is when I slip them off. Sometimes the earrings make it back into my apartment, and sometimes they don’t. Sometimes they stay in the car as a general statement about how the night went.
I have spent the majority of the past few hours wading through the crowd trying to find stimulating and energetic photos. I’ve also been helping a stream of women, ranging from slightly tipsy to fall-down drunk, navigate the step that disappeared in the dark. I did this partly because watching people fall is not something I enjoy doing, but also because most of the ladies were holding drinks that, if sent tumbling, would most likely wash over my camera. Better to just help them get down.
The next thing to go is always the shoes. I don’t care if you wear comfortable sneakers or torturous heels from the depths of Dante’s Inferno, standing, wobbling, tip-toeing and sidestepping for hours on end will make your feet hurt. As soon as I am in the door, the shoes end up on the floor. They will usually stay there until the next day. Another casualty in the war of nightlife.
A couple came up and asked for a photo. I obliged. That’s my job, and they were cute. Win-win. Three photos later they still aren’t satisfied. And they are obstructing traffic on the stairs that the nice security guard lets me stand on despite it being against the rules. Three photos of this cute couple were enough. So I waved them off with a sheepish, but determined face. That’s when she looked at her boyfriend and screamed “She’s a whore!” and walked away. I shake out my hair. It’s just not worth the fight.
The top is always the next to go. Nightlife clothes are not the same as a “jeans and t-shirt” look. Although sometimes I do wear jeans and a t-shirt. But it’s not that easy. You have to add a little extra sumthin-sumthin. (Don’t judge me for writing that.) Usually, that entails some evil bralette that was created in the same hellish factory as Dante’s Inferno’s shoes. In order to get off the bra which has been constricting, pulling and sweating for the past several hours, you have to get off the top, which I usually shed on the way into the bedroom; leaving another piece of my outfit littered throughout the apartment. That will also stay there until tomorrow.
He cornered me. He leaned in close and asked if I had seen a girl in a red pencil skirt. My mind mentally ran through a rolodex of photos I’d taken. I tell him that I haven’t. He tells me he is watching out for her. (Awww, that’s sweet.) Well, watching out for her for her boyfriend. (Ok. Still sweet.) The boyfriend is overseas fighting, he tells me, and now the girl is drunk somewhere in the sea of people and he has to find her. (Still can’t help you.) Then he explains that he was in love with her three years ago. (Uh.) So this is a particularly hard evening for him. (I’m speechless. At this point, I don’t know what my response should be.) With a look of frustrated empathy, he walks away to find the girl in the red pencil skirt who stole his love and gave it to someone else. I saw him again later that evening; she was wearing a black dress, not a red pencil skirt.
Next comes the jeans/skirt. They reek of smoke, both legal and not, and have been repeatedly doused with every kind of stylish drink that a person can order. These clothes have been through the ringer. The sooner I get them off and officially shed the evening’s events and return to my normal life, the better. Removing the many pieces of my life that I carry with me in my pockets can be like patting down a criminal for weapons. Lipstick, lip liner, gloss, eyeliner, ID, debit card, car keys, house keys, change, dollar bills and the occasional CF card come out one by one. Once that extensive process is over, I am almost done.
I placed my back against a wall. Not having to look in 360 degrees can be a relief sometimes. I suppose my location seemed more intentional to her than I meant it. A random pretty blonde standing outside the men’s restroom starts up a conversation with me as though we had already been speaking for hours. “Seriously, it smells in there,” she says to me, indicating the men’s room. I nod although I frankly don’t smell anything. Over the next five minutes she explains that although she is married, she has often been interested in being a lesbian. But she doesn’t think her husband would approve. Baffled, and trying to regain my footing in the conversation, I ask her if her husband is going to be coming out of the bathroom she seems to be stalking. If he is, I can take their photo and use that as a way to exit the conversation. No, he’s not here. I try to go along with her and her lesbian interests for a while, not wanting to make her feel foolish, but eventually, I have to leave. All I wanted was to lean against a wall.
Finally, and lastly, comes the bralette. Ultimate relief as I officially remove the last piece of my costume and slip into an over-sized t-shirt from a long-ago boyfriend. Exhausted, I flop on the bed and stretch my body. My mind starts to unwind and the conversations and events that have filled the last few cluttered hours fade into the bliss of being inside my silent home. A few minutes of relishing the feeling of not having to try so hard and then I have to get up again and follow the path of removed articles of clothing back to the computer. I have photos to download.
The DJ was coming in five minutes. That’s what they said. Of course, they said that about five times. Five “five minutes” can add up to a very long time in nightlife, which, as a rule, doesn’t abide by traditional time. By the fifth time they announced he was five minutes away, I stopped listening. The crowd was becoming more congested, their chants were becoming louder and more frustrated. We’d been watching the DJ’s faithful servant set up the bedazzled laptop for the past half hour. Occasionally he would pick up the mic and scream “Make some NOIYZ!” The crowd would scream, making “noiyz” and then we’d all go back to watching the lackey set up the laptop.
The hair is next. It gets twisted into an untidy bun just to get it out of my face. For the past several hours, I have been tossing, tucking and combing my hair in hot bars and cold streets. There was no hair expertise that could make my hair look good all evening. What started as straightened and silky inevitably ends as knotted and wavy. It’s just the way it is.
Mayhem breaks out once the DJ does finally make an appearance. General respect for one another fails completely as the crowd rushes forward. What started as a good location for photos ends up being a one-trick pony. Now I have to get down to the pit. My eyes are surveying the clamoring people as I realize that I may have just screwed myself right out of the shot I need to get. Making it downstairs, let alone to the pit directly in front of the DJ booth, is starting to look like World War III. Ten minutes later, I’m trapped in a suffocating group which is pulsating, pushing and pulling in all directions. My arm is screaming in pain from being extended above my head to keep my camera and lens away from the sweaty crowds. My desperate attempts to make eye contact with someone in charge are fruitless. I give up and slip out of the crowd.
A quick edit of the photos and I can call it a night. But I won’t actually be calling it a night. The television is playing a movie and I’m enjoying the peace.
I eventually get the photos I need thanks to people that work at the venue. But my night has been rough. After being called a whore, to being the confidante of star-crossed lovers and lesbian wannabes, I’m ready to call it a night. I walk outside relishing the blast of cold air and make my way to my car.
Tomorrow I have to refine my photos and start to pick up all the pieces from the puddle of pocket products and the trail of clothes, including the earrings in the car.
Once in my car, I take a deep breath. I turn off the radio; a little quiet sounds good. The car fires to life and I shift into gear heading home. Somewhere on the highway, as my back starts to lose its tension, I take off my earrings. It always starts with the earrings. They are the first things to go.