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I
flip on the light in the bathroom. It’s bright and hurts my eyes. I unzip
my bulging makeup case and start selecting the shades I plan to wear tonight.
My eyes adjust to the light. It’s brighter than my bathroom at home. It
makes my skin look like alabaster. Too bad the light can’t follow me
around this evening.
I blend an ivory beige shade into my skin. I line
my eyes in a smoky black. My lips are tinted with my favorite shade-- Film
Noir—the colour of those juicy dark cherries heaped temptingly at local
fruit stands every August.
Now what to wear? Perhaps one of my new
outfits from St. Mark’s Place? No, instead I opt for something a bit more
familiar-- a stretchy long sleeved black lace top and long velour black
skirt.
I lock my hotel door and head down the stairs. I pass the front
desk and feel the two men behind the counter eyeing me quizzically. I step
outside and am instantly hit with street noise and blaring horns. I refrain
from hailing a cab. It’s such a warm summer night. In fact, it’s a
perfect night to take in New York City before I retreat to the depths of 30th
and 10th streets.
I walk through throngs of people in Times Square. I
don’t have to take this route. I chose to. You’d be lucky to spy even
one native New Yorker walking down this stretch of 7th avenue. Almost everyone
comes from somewhere other than New York. And as I walk through the bright
lights and the glare of Times Square, I get almost as many looks as the massive
billboards for MTV and Coke. The sea of people normally packed into this
tourist trap seem to split apart as I glide down the sidewalk. I am the only
person without a fanny pack and ten cameras hanging around my neck. People step
back. What is this darkness amid the garish lights? It’s just a Darq Angel
from Toronto making her way through Gotham.
Twelve blocks later, I turn
onto 30th street, and see Albion-Batcave. Two security guards watch a group of
smokers laughing loudly. I walk up to one guard and hand him my driver’s
license. I’m giddy with anticipation. It’s been almost a whole year
since I’ve been here. The guard looks at my ID, flipping it around in the
light, and examining it from every angle. He doesn’t see Canadian cards
often. He can’t be sure if it’s fake. Satisfied, he hands it back to
me and places a yellow band around my wrist. Batcave is open to those over 18.
But only those over 21 can drink. My yellow band indicates that I am old enough
to imbibe. I head up the dark stairwell.
At the top of the stairs, a
gruff female security guard greets me. After a quick pat down she shines a
flashlight into my purse and fingers its contents. I get the all-clear and walk
around the corner to the cashier. I hand over a pass for my reduced $10 cover.
And finally, finally, I enter Batcave. The music is pounding, and so is my
heart. I bypass the first floor and race to the second. The five dollars I
saved on cover buys my first beer. Yes, Budweiser for $5.00, but good luck
finding a drop of Molson or Labatt.
I head to the main floor and pass
by a familiar figure. An older gentleman, dressed like a beatnik—tight
black pants slightly rolled up at the ankle, black vest over a white turtle
neck, black beret cocked on a thatch of white hair, and thick black glasses,
which sat crookedly on his nose. Black Converse high tops completed the look.
He was sketching the dark shadows fervently in the corner of the club.
I’ve seen him here, drawing quietly, since I first started going to
Batcave three years ago. It’s good to see that some things never
change.
Where people seemed to step away from me in Times Square, I was
swept into the crowd here at the club. Temple of Love blared loudly and I began
dancing. It was familiar, yet refreshing. The energy and exuberance of the
crowd created a vibe unlike that of any Toronto dance floor. A year had passed.
I missed it so much, yet I felt as though I had never been gone.
Hot
and thirsty, I head to the bar for another sub-par beverage. I wind my way to
the next dance floor around the corner where old-school goth and synth pop is
pounding. Beautiful people in beautiful clothes dance with such fierce energy.
It’s packed. There’s barely enough room to dance here. But you
can’t help yourself. I squeeze into a spot on the dance floor. The energy
and the vibe are intoxicating. Which is more than I can say for the
Bud.
When I tire of the music on one floor, I migrate to another.
Having three floors of music to choose from is such a delicious luxury.
It’s inevitable that I miss a good song or two as I race between the
floors. I am almost dizzy with delight.
It’s 3:55 a.m. It’s
last call. I grab a final drink and pull out my last few crumpled one dollar
bills. I quickly finish off the beer and hit the dance floor. But suddenly, the
music stops. Most of us swarm the main floor only to catch the end of the final
song. The night is suddenly gone. I look at my watch disbelievingly. It’s
already 4:55 a.m.
I only just begin to notice that my feet are aching
in their strappy high heels. I follow the crowd down the stairs. I look at the
corner where the artist was sitting. He’s long gone.
Outside I
inhale the sweet humid air. My ears ring in the relative quiet of 30th street.
I remember I am in New York City, but I don’t feel like a stranger. Passes
are stuffed into my hand-- Alchemy at CBGB’s, Absolution at Flamingo, The
Other Side at the Raven. I stuff them all in my bag, even though I know I
won’t be around for those nights.
Some people linger outside the
Batcave. I blend with the stragglers that are walking. One by one they each
fall away-- to a subway station, a 24-hour diner, a convenience store. Soon I
am the lone Batcave patron. And once again I begin to stand out. And the more
people begin to stare. I take little notice. I look up at the sky and the early
rays of the sun are trying to break through. But I’m not quite ready to go
home. I continue my stroll through the city that never sleeps, and find
it’s surprisingly quiet. The Chrysler Building is glowing, even though
it’s barely dawn. The silver shine looks surreal against the indigo of the
sky. I stop and admire the view. I’m dizzy with drink, and the magic of a
rare, quiet, New York moment.
I head back to my temporary home,
ignoring the dozens of yellow cabs honking as they zip by me. I’m tired
yet happy. And I think that in the Big Dark Apple, this Darq Angel is at home
in the world.
posted September 14 2004 |
Darq Angel has been living in
Toronto for 15 years. An avid reader, writer, club-goer, and music lover, she
has been a lurker in Toronto's gothic scene, floating around quietly, casting
her dark shadow over various clubs and events in the city. 