Benjamin goes to a club

“Did you know that a group of flamingos is called a flamboyance?”, Benjamin asks me while fixing himself a drink in the kitchen. It is a Sunday in early June, unusually hot for this time of the year and the heat makes the whole city one lethargic mass of sticky people. We sit on the balcony and I have taken off my rings because my fingers keep swelling and actually look a bit blue around the knuckles already. I look at my hands. My skin is so pale that the veins shine through like tiny blue and purple rivers. Summer seems to have arrived so unexpectedly that my winter skin is not ready yet to be exposed to the sun. 

Maybe it wasn’t the best idea to start drinking in the early afternoon, especially since the thermometer has hit 37 degrees at 2 pm. I also don’t recall exactly how we came up with the idea, probably because it is just too hot to actually attempt doing something or going somewhere.

“It is intriguing though that other groups of birds are called differently. A murder of crows, for example”, he continues, waving a knife at me as he peels an orange and adds the zest to his drink. I wonder if I’ve ever seen him have a simple beer. “However, it’s called an unkindness of ravens, even though they belong to the same family. Peculiar, isn’t it?” I grunt. The heat makes my skin prickle and I can feel a thin layer of sweat materialize itself on my upper lip. I close my eyes for a minute and rest my head against the wall that feels pleasantly cold. “ A gulp of cormorants, an exaltation of larks, a parliament of owls, a watch of nightingales, a murmuration of starlings…”

“I’m going to a club in an hour, do you want to join?” I must have dozed off because I clearly must have misunderstood. It is not possible that Benjamin had just asked this question. Wasn’t he talking about birds a minute ago? He is already halfway through his drink and he looks excited. “A club?” I mumble and rub my eyes. He gets up to go inside and comes back with a shopping bag from The Kooples. He shows me a plain white T-Shirt with a tiny silhouette of a sparrow sewn on the left chest pocket and chunky black shoes which remind me a bit of the buffalos everyone had in 98. While he rambles on about how he bought those two pieces of clothing especially for the occasion of going out today, I think about how I can’t recall seeing him in a T-Shirt ever, let alone in such monstrous shoes for as long as I’ve known him. 

His style is probably best described as preppy - not that I would know the names of fashion styles. Usually, he wears colorful loafers that he orders in Paris and that arrive in a wooden box coated in satin with a handwritten note by the shoemaker. Usually, he wears shirts, carefully ironed, with exquisite details on the cuffs of the sleeves or extravagant bird prints. Usually, he wears glasses made from Titanium which he doesn’t need but which have been patented for more than 150 years and can not be bent or broken no matter how hard you try. Usually, he wears this smug expression of arrogance, refusing to smile when a picture is taken because it will make his face look asymmetric. 

I watch in awe as he gets dressed, this style actually fits him and he looks as if he has never worn something else than this white oversized T-Shirt and chunky black sneakers. It’s actually not the style that fits him, it’s him who owns the style as if he had invented it. I must look puzzled because I can see the slightly confused look on his face as he tries to read my expression. “Looks good”, I say and smile at him. I can see the second of confusion fade away and Benjamin is back at his usual self. “There is this open-air party, it’s supposed to be good and I’ve never been to a club before. But the Playstation doesn’t offer enough games that run at 60 frames per second except for Hitman and I finished that already, so I’m bored. Oh, that reminds me, before we go I need to get these new shoes dirty.” He points at his shiny black sneakers. “They look way too clean and new for such a club, I checked people’s outfits on Instagram and I don’t want to be pointed out as the newbie, or worse a tourist, right at the door.”

He shivers and finishes the rest of his drink which by now is pretty watered down by the ice cubes. Being exposed to the midday sun, they had melted within minutes, causing our glasses to leave a water ring on the balcony table which technically is just an upside-down beer crate I had covered with a wooden plank to create a makeshift table. I’m still not sure if I’m following up with what he is telling me and I don’t know if it’s because of the sun or the drink or just Benjamin. Probably a combination of all three. But it’s mid-afternoon already and I know that not much will happen anymore today anyways. I feel the boredom of a hot, lazy day creeping up on me around the corner so I get up quickly. “Let’s get those babies dirty then.”

—

We’re in line in front of the club and the sun is brutally burning down on our heads. I’m glad I thought about putting sunscreen but I forgot to bring a hat or something else to cover my head. I can clearly feel the effect of the drinks now as the sun boils the windings of my brain, heating up my scalp and leaving me with a sticky, dry mouth. Benjamin doesn’t seem to bother, he doesn’t even look like he’s warm. He is standing next to me, shoes freshly dirty, covered in mud and sand from the playground downstairs of my flat. I admire how he has his mind set on this expedition, holding up his chin, arms crossed in front of his body. He is wrinkling his nose and pushes up his sunglasses, a Dior special edition from 78 he had ordered from a private collector in Milan last summer. We try to keep a bit more distance to two ridiculously tall blonde guys in front of us who look pretty wasted already with bloated faces and small red eyes. Probably they haven’t slept for the past 48 hours. They wear loose cut muscle shirts that reveal a whole armada of club stamps up and down their bare arms and stained black jeans.

“Some people could have showered”, Benjamin says dryly. “Smells like a business of ferrets. Did you know that a group of giraffes is called a tower?” 

Every time the meaty bouncers steps sideways and the club doors open for a few seconds, the pounding base gets through, a throbbing promise of more sweating and more dancing, luring people inside. I wonder how Benjamin will react to the crowd as the club is quite small and things get sweaty easily because of the lack of ventilation. I should have asked how he came up with the idea of going to this electro swing party when the music genres he listens to every day are completely different from that. Hard to forget the housewarming party where he insisted to play Iranian folk music at 2 am in the morning. Iranian folk music from the 70s to be very precise and I can’t help but let out a dry laugh at the thought of it. I wonder how information like this sticks so easily to one’s mind and how you remember bits and pieces of it in the most unexpected moments.

We’re finally up and I take one last drag of my cigarette before we present ourselves to the mercilessness of the bouncer. “If he doesn’t like our faces and sends us away, promise that you won’t start a discussion” I hiss over to Benjamin. Waiting in line, I had enough time to picture how he would try to lecture the bouncer, using arguments so rational that they hurt, but that would not get us anywhere this afternoon, especially not inside of the club.

As so often, I don’t know why I was worried because if Benjamin has mastered one thing, it’s the absolutely emotionless expression on his face. He looks like he couldn’t care less and so the bouncer just nods wearily at him and lets him pass, me following up on his heels. I realize that it’s most likely me who wouldn’t have gotten in without him, not the other way around. 

We make our way past the cloakroom, cross the inside dancefloor that is so dark that you can barely see who is standing right in front of you and step back out on the other side onto the outdoor floor. The music is pumping at full volume and I can feel my heartbeat adjusting to the throbbing pulse of the base. We stand in the doorway for some minutes, squinting into the pitiless sun, burning down from an electric blue sky onto the twitching bodies of the dancing crowd, covered in sweat. Some people wear 1920’s style outfits, mostly petite women with flat chests and short hair, crowned by feathered headbands, wearing dark red lipstick and straight-lined sequined dresses. I glance at Benjamin and I can see his eyes moving quickly from the crowd to the sky, to the trees draped with fairy lights and disco balls, to the bar underneath the biggest of the disco balls and back, taking in the absurdity of the scenery. “Do you want a drink?” I ask at last. “I thought you’d never ask”.

Getting across the packed dance floor is quite an endeavor and we’ve not even made it halfway through when we get stuck in a group, dancing together in a half-circle around us. Two of the men are bare-chested, their bodies are glistening in the summer sun, their pants damp from dancing in this heat. Their skin color turned a bit pinkish already, they’ve been out for too long already but they seem not to bother. One of them compliments Benjamin on his outfit, some words are exchanged and before anyone knows what exactly is going on, we’re part of this dancing group, being gently pushed back and forth like a beachball amidst the waves. Benjamin looks pleased, his mission of blending in seems to work and I don’t want to interrupt him so I sign him that I will get the drinks and come back to this exact same spot, the golden rule if you plan to separate in a club. I make my way to the bar, trying not to push people too harshly aside. Again I find myself extradited to the mercy of a third person, this time the barkeeper, whose attention I desperately try to get. Without Benjamin by my side, I somehow feel less visible, less present and before I can lock my eyes with the barkeeper’s eyes, forcing him to acknowledge me, I am shoved aside by the two tall guys we had waited in line with earlier. They order, the barkeeper starts preparing their drinks and I contemplate my fate while trying to squeeze myself between them so I will be at least the next person served. I don’t know how long it actually takes me to get the drinks and to maneuver my way back through the crowd, carefully trying not to spill too much. 

When I come back to the spot where I had left Benjamin with the others, I recognize the bare-chested men but I can’t spot Benjamin anywhere. I sigh, mentally preparing myself for searching the whole club for him when I notice that he is actually standing right in front of me. He has taken his T-Shirt off and has stuffed it in the back of his pants, letting it hang loosely down the back of his legs like a towel. He is dancing, quite rhythmically, eyes closed, with pearls of sweat glistening like little diamonds in his sparse chest hair, his shoes covered in sand and dust. “Benjamin!”, I yell, as waving his drink in his direction is not enough to catch his attention. He opens his eyes, he looks ecstatic, almost frantic as he reaches out for his drink while continuing to dance. He raises his arms up into the sky, tossing his head to the rhythm of the music, giggling. He smiles at me, a big, asymmetric smile, that reveals all of his teeth before he takes the first sip of his drink.