The girls at the studio said they only like trap music, and they don’t care if its 2 Chainz or Bauauer but if the club won’t play it, they won’t go. Its 3:30 am and the studio is making us leave because Drake has to drop in, and the whiskeys gone and the engineers are out of Adderal so it’s probably the time to make the hour peregrination back to Brooklyn anyway. Unless there’s a club on this Wednesday night that’s gonna play enough trap to keep the girls happy. And since we’re in NYC their most certainly is, so they all pop a Xanax and call a car service since Jennifer has her dad’s Amex, while we finish exporting records and sending them to dropbox.
In the car I watch us drive by the bridges on our way downtown and I picture them each falling one by one, my face glued to the windows, my hands shaking from lack of sleep and the natural anticipation of total world collapse. What if it happens tonight? What if while we walk in and order four Jameson’s neat and the DJ changes the record when the girls step onto the floor the whole of New York City begins to crash down and we don’t even know it until its too late, and their we are in the rubble, our last night a desperate attempt to find not the party of our dreams, but just a party that’s decent…
Gwen slaps me on the cheek and tells me to get out of the car before I even realize we’ve stopped. They’ve got boys meeting us, two guys from Sweden, I just call them Hans and Sven, even though those aren’t their real names, but they’re nice enough, besides being painfully chic, and one of them, I think Hans, works at Daieago so he gets to charge drinks on his company card, which combined with our inability to communicate beyond the language barrier makes him more qualified to be a good friend than most of the people I meet out.
Two drinks and hundreds of kick drum beats later I’ve come to the conclusion the city isn’t gonna fall down tonight, although I personally might. Everyone’s got the spins but no one wants to brave the staircase and about two dozen more people stumbled in the club at 4am so to the untrained eye it almost resembles the start of the night. Someone got a text about a loft party but all I want is two egg whites with mozzarella and spinach on wheat but god knows where there’s a deli, and who even knows where we are, I think the Village but i couldn’t tell yah which side and my phone died somewhere on the car ride.
We’re at the loft when the sun comes up, which is one of those moments when someone plays the right music on the ipod dock (Gold Panda) and everyone looks around and someone makes a comment about how alive we feel and I’m inclined to agree. When I get to the subway the train pulls up exactly on time and all seems right with the world.