Maelstrom

Chapter 14: "I Know Kung-Fu"

I returned from my ten minutes of me-time to a squeeze on the arm from Shari and a bucketful of freshly cut limes from Chauncey, and the last couple of hours of my shift were just the normal kind of Asylum crazy. I couldn't help checking to see if Alkaev had resumed his post overlooking the club, but the balcony rail was empty and the lights were off. He was still here, though; not only was every nerve-ending in my body humming, but the security guard who had come to my rescue was now standing near my end of the bar. I gave him a quick smile and a wave as I slipped into my station; the man's face was inscrutable, so I just conjured up an imaginary answering smile on his stony face and got back to work.

The money was even better tonight than on previous nights, which was handy. My NYPD salary continued, of course, since I was still on the job, albeit remotely; but most of the expenses from the life I had put on hold – utilities, property taxes, condo fees, other cell phone bill, health insurance, gym membership, etc – continued to roll in every month. My Asylum wages and tips had to cover my new life: apartment rental, current utilities, new cell phone bill, bus fare, food, toiletries, temporary tattoos and some temporary psychedelic hair coloring, club-worthy clothing and accessories, gym membership, Internet service, and maybe a little bit of fun. It was difficult to balance two lives, two identities, but also kind of exhilarating. At least it was so far.

As usual, Asylum began shutting down in stages. The bar in the chill loft closed up at 3:00am, the two waitresses working up there encouraging patrons to try to find an empty table next to the dance floor downstairs, where they could continue to serve them from the small bar for about 25 more minutes. The loft emptied slowly but steadily after that, its patrons trickling onto the main dance floor like rain off a canted roof.

The small bar, sometimes called the "dance floor bar" or the "wait bar" since it serviced the bulk of the wait staff the club employed, shut up shop at 3:30am, its bartenders – with a security escort – carrying their till drawers to the back to count their take for the evening, ignoring the shrill whining of die-hard party people trying to get one last drink. This moved any remaining action to the main bar, and encouraged many to start heading for the exit in the hopes of snagging a cab before the last-minute crush at 4:00am.

Flashing red fire-truck-style lights above the main bar proclaimed last call at 3:45am, which always prompted a ridiculous flurry of activity. It was a weird tradition at Asylum that – instead of winding down gradually, maybe shutting down a couple more stations to further encourage patrons to leave, closing out tabs – when those lights started flashing, the last six bartenders launched into a manic frenzy – a shots-only, cash-only, balls-to-the-wall dash to the finish line. The last revelers screamed and waved large bills in the air in an attempt to assure they would be seen and allowed to slam liquor down their throats in the final minutes.

My watch read 3:56am. The crowd packing the space in front of the bar was starting to get desperate. I quickly set up two rows of shot glasses, each 12 glasses long. I grabbed a bottle of whiskey and one of tequila, crossed my arms, and poured down the lines in opposite directions. The patrons were jumping around in unrestrained excitement, and I was starting to sweat like I was in a hot yoga class.

"Ten bucks!" I shouted. "Whiskey!" I pointed to my right. "Tequila!" I yelled, pointing to my left. It was 3:58am, and a slow, whooping alarm began sounding, the signal for the final minutes of service. People began slapping bills down on the bar as others jockeyed for position and some just stepped back to watch the pandemonium. Every $10 bill got a shot in return, every $20 got two shots – fuck 'em if they didn't have correct change, they could slam a double shot or make a new friend.

Finally, the crowd started counting down from 10, and I continued to hand out shots and scoop up cash. By the time the crowd screamed "3 – 2 – 1!", every drink was gone, I had $240 jammed in my waistband waiting to be rung in, plus several singles and fives tossed onto the bar as tips, and the four barbacks and two bouncers were in place behind the bar. As the final wordless scream split the ears of everyone within a two-block radius, the six men simultaneously stepped forward to "restrain" the bartenders, as if physical measures were the only things preventing us from wildly slinging booze all night. A couple of the bartenders struggled theatrically, presumably overcome by mixology mania, but I let Chauncey lead me off without a fight, slumping a bit in unfeigned exhaustion. Stefano thanked each one of his hardworking liquor-peddlers as we were taken to the break room and he took charge of the bar. We all got a bit of a breather while the bouncers cleared the club and the house lights came up.