Club Angel

by Fiona Pestana

I caught her gaze when I eventually opened my eyes. Neon LEDs glowed on her face. She wore a strappy silver tank top that matched the gray hair she didn’t dye. She was probably twice my age, but she looked like an athlete. She’d probably run laps around my friends. They used to come out dancing, before it made them too sad. 

I tried not to stare for too long. I didn’t want to overstep. But I kept glancing back, taking note of something new. Laugh lines. Sharp collarbones. A cursive name I couldn’t make out tattooed behind her ear, blurred with time. 

I’d usually only flirt with people close to my age, but the playing field felt level in the haze of the club. We danced, smiling whenever our eyes met, moving closer to each other. Bound by rhythm. Her arms floated, fingers tracing the air. Eventually, they touched my shoulders, the sides of my body. I mirrored her, my hands finding her hips. 

I wondered if we’d make out. Or if she’d be my new rave buddy. Or if she’d be the sugar mommy I’d been dreaming of. I needed the money. The affection would be nice, too. I’d bet she’s a tender, strong top. 

She pulled me back to solid ground, taking my hand and guiding us to the water station. She filled a cup and gave it to me before filling one for herself. We chugged, refilled, chugged again. She grabbed my shoulder and brought her mouth to my ear. 

“Wanna step out?” 

We shared a smoke on the patio of Nowhere. Her name’s Willa. She came to the rave alone, too. She used to be a DJ until her kid was born. Then she became an accountant. She followed hard rules whenever she went out dancing. 

“Don’t drink. Only use nose drugs once a quarter. Toss any leftovers before leaving. Get in bed by 6am. Dedicate the next day to doing all my wellness shit. That sort of thing.” She took a long drag and handed me the cigarette, nearing the filter.

“Sounds pretty healthy.” 

“It took a sec to figure out what worked. I need all this. I needed to make it sustainable.” I stamped out the smoke and looked up at her. She had sweet brown eyes. I opened my mouth a little, then closed it. 

“What? Say it.” 

I blushed at my feet. 

“Have you hit your quarterly quota yet?” 

I found the ritual of drug preparation to be even more satisfying than actually doing the drug. Time dedicated to a manual task that ends with pleasure to share with others. Like cooking for friends, or handmaking a gift. 

Grayson showed me how to cut lines. She used the flat screen of her phone, a dollar bill, and her student I.D. Once a month, we’d take the train from school to the warehouse district and rave until dawn. I started doing coke because she offered. It united us. And, I loved dancing all night. Drugs helped me stay up late. It was utilitarian. Coke made me feel like shit for a few days after — exhausted, anxious, sore from tight shoulders and a clenched jaw — but the fun was worth the discomfort. I used to be obedient and rigid, a doll in a plaid skirt. EDM taught me how to move my body blithely. Grayson taught me how to stretch the elastic of autonomy. How to get good grades and party, too. 

After college, our group of two expanded and congealed. We approached the other freaks with bathroom haircut bangs in the outdoor smoking sections and built a family. Leather-clad androgynes, tall girls with face piercings, short guys with scars. Trans people always found each other, easily. Mushrooms speaking through mycelium. 

We danced at local DJ sets, little camping raves in the woods, multi-day festivals when we had the discipline to save money. Carrying water and Narcan and chapstick, we tended to each other.

Until our group disbanded a couple summers ago. This was my first night out since. Willa and I crammed into a stall. She smelled like lavender and light sweat. Music muffled and bumped through the walls. I appreciated the intimacy, touching no matter how we placed ourselves around the toilet. We joined each other on the same wavelength, on the same substance. I watched her gray roots while she did a line. What pain is she killing out here? I wondered. “What’s your kid like?” I asked. 

“He’s an angel. A sweet, anxious little jazz band nerd. I’m trying to get him to loosen up. A little less screen time and a little more hanging out with people, outside. He’s cool, just closed off. Scared.” 

My heartbeat sped up. She gripped my hand and led us out of the stall, back into the sea of bodies. 

We beelined to the center of the floor, squeezing between people kissing, people losing themselves. This DJ spun a faster mix. Quick-footed beats and a heavy bass that thumped deep in my stomach. A hot sample echoed, lamenting “forbidden feelings.” 

Entangled, Willa and I found the groove. The club faded away. It was just us, orbiting each other. 

She leaned in and said something. I couldn’t hear her over the music. She smiled softly. She spoke a little louder. 

“What are you?” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Like, is this gay?” 

I laughed. “I think so.” 

She nodded shyly. “Sorry. It’s been a while.” 

I pulled her back into me. “You’re doing great.”

“You’re sweet,” she said in my ear. 

I missed this, clicking into place with a hot stranger, feeling new skin. I missed raving in general: the movement, the release. Willa had seemingly learned how to party consistently without letting it ruin her life. From what I’d gathered, she’s an attentive mother. I could do this for decades like her, if I did it right. 

I felt his weight crash into my shoulder and snapped back into the club. A guy in the circle next to us hit me on his way down, crumpling to the ground. One of his friends pushed the crowd away from him, opening a circle so he could maybe breathe through the fog. They waved down the staff, who swiftly lifted him off the dance floor and away to the medical tent outside. They were clearly used to this, a fast-operating machine. Everyone else froze, shaken out of a trance. 

I stood, clenching my jaw. I floated outside of my body and watched myself from behind, like a third-person video game. I shook my head, attempting to clear it, and navigated myself outside. I headed to the far end of the patio, away from the med tent. I looked small and naked in a mesh tank top. 

I paced, tapping my fingers against my legs, quick like the DJ’s breakbeat. Did he pass out? Overdose? Die? Would his friends have to identify a body? There’s a funeral home on almost every block in the city. They had fluorescents and paisley carpets and sticky leather chairs. Classical music played over the constant buzz of the lights. Not a great place to spend the morning after. 

I thought I was ready to go dancing again. I wanted to relearn and prove to my old friends that a night out doesn’t have to be a catastrophe. Wishful thinking. 

I pressed my hand to my heart, trying to keep it from beating out of my chest. I closed my eyes. Inhale 4 seconds. Hold 7 seconds. Exhale 8 seconds. 

When I opened my eyes, Grayson stood in front of me. I felt my pupils stretch, dilating. “He’s okay. He’ll be okay.”

I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out. I clenched my fists in an attempt to ground myself. 4. 7. 8. I felt my heart in my temples, under my teeth. It didn’t slow down. I tried to focus on Grayson. Five things you can see. Hot pink hair with a bleached blonde streak. She wore all black and a leather jacket. She towered like a model. I could see her breath, a little puff of smoke under her nose. Her hazel eyes softened with pity. 

The vision freaked me out, but I clung to the gift. 

She died doing bad coke two years ago. I still felt lonely. After a few months of grieving together, our rave crew totally dissolved. We just depressed each other. We learned the pleasure of staying in on Saturday nights, of building nests and burying ourselves in them. 

I finally wanted to dig myself out. I pushed through anxiety and grief to possibly feel elastic again, like when Grayson and I were kids. I didn’t want to feel old so early. 

The first time I did coke, in the bathroom of a warehouse on my 19th birthday, Grayson talked, and I listened. 

“A brain is like a snowy mountain. Most of the time, we ski down the same trails, beaten down and marked. Whenever we do a new drug, or experience a new thing, we carve a new path in the snow. We go down the mountain from a different spot. We see the view from a different perspective. Maybe we go down a completely different side of the mountain, exposing us to something we couldn’t even imagine before. That’s probably like, doing DMT or climbing Mt. Everest, in this metaphor. Most stuff isn’t as crazy or mind-bending. And, if the new slope sucks, there’s always a bottom. It’ll end at some point. Everything ends eventually. Just gotta ride it until it’s over. Then, we never have to go down that path again. But, at least we saw what was there. It’s fun to know. I wanna carve up my mountain. I wanna explore as much ground as I can and soak it all in.”

I jumped when a hand touched my arm. Willa handed me a cup of water. I sipped it and took a deep breath. My heartbeat slowed down a bit. 

“He’s drinking apple juice in the med tent. He’s probably just dehydrated. You okay?” I looked back at the empty space where Grayson used to be. 

“I think this place is haunted.” 

She smiled a little. “Yeah. The whole city is.” 

We left Nowhere and shared another cigarette on the street before saying goodbye. Pausing to breathe with her, feeling the smoke move in and out of my mouth, calmed me down more. “I hope that didn’t spook you too badly.” 

“I’m okay,” I blushed. 

“Thanks for hanging out tonight,” Willa said. “I usually keep to myself, but I felt…I had a good time with you.” 

“Me too.” 

“It'd be cool to see you here again. I come once or twice a month.” 

“Yeah, I’m trying to go out more. I’m sure I’ll see you around.” 

I considered asking for her number, but I didn’t. 

Willa kissed my cheek and walked away. Her metallic jacket reflected the light from the street lamps, glowing until the dark patch under the overpass hid her figure. I carried her rules with me. I’d go to yoga the next day.