Story with No Title. Day 17
I just finished Анна Каренина and it was truly incredible. Did you know there was a 2007 Times poll of 125 contemporary authors in which Anna Karenina was voted the "greatest novel ever written”?
Here’s the deal. I really liked the part about the Джентльменский клуб. So much so, that it got me to thinking: why not me? Quick as a wink I was online looking up the best in the area and was pleased to find that there was a top rated gentleman’s club just a few blocks away. I could just see it; valet parking; butler in each room; quiet conversation at a table by the fire, spoken in French but transitioning to Russian from time to time; and perhaps a game of darts down the hall. Pretty expensive to join but I decided I would check it out anyway. Plus, there’s the whole ‘situation’ with the bro – maybe a good idea to get out of the apartment for the night.
I headed out to the street. It was late, pushing полночь, so things were slowing down. There was a bit of a wind, blowing an empty paper bag down the street. On another night I would have followed it, just to see where it would go. Do you ever do that? There was also a hint of rain in the wind, but refreshing more than wet.
Across the street the bar was still busy. Did you know that alcohol increases the volume of your voice? It’s obviously true, but I have not found any study that proves it. For that reason I have initiated a study through Columbia University to test the theory and to look for the blood alcohol level at which the decibel increase reaches certain predetermined thresholds. It’s now at the IRB awaiting approval, as is required for studies that involve human beings. If any of you are interested in participating, let me know.
Too bad I didn’t have a recorder. There was a lot of very loud chatter tumbling out of the door onto the street; including some good cuss words.
I was going to take a cab, but wave as I did, not a one of them would stop. That’s plain bad business.
I walked instead. It was about 8 blocks away, a good half mile, so it took me about 20 minutes to get there. Oddly, there were lots of folks milling about at the entrance. I was a surprised, as a gentlemen’s club should be quiet, with just the greeter at the door, who would always know your name and ask after you and the misses, or the countess, or whatever. But here there were a bunch of guys, many puffing away at their cigarettes, looking like they were in a hurry.
I guess that is the new age. In Russia, where I come from, I mean the novel, all the smoking is done inside, a part of the atmosphere, so to speak. Not here. You gotta smoke outside, thanks to the damned government! Not that I smoke, or anything – that would be gross – but there are some places in which tobacco is a part of the ritual, a part of the experience. Oh, well.
So anyway, I pushed my way through the crowd standing around the door and stumbled into the large antechamber. There was music coming from different directions and I saw that this was actually a very large club, apparently with multiple rooms and floors. I guess I was expecting a soloist with his violin or maybe the sound of billiards, but I was still stuck in the novel.
It was then I noticed there were women in the hall. Obviously some oversight on the part of the maître d'. I marched into the show room to lodge a complaint – what the…
Holly shit! There were women everywhere and most of them naked! On stage, swaying to the crappy music, with frequent pelvic thrusts, spinning and jumping, breast flopping every which way. There was some old geezer leaning with his back on the stage, gazing at the sky. Well, not the sky, actually. I am sure you know where he was looking.
It was appalling. There was alcohol everywhere – not saying that is bad mind you. Все хорошие вещи в меру, as my mother used to say. But holy crap, it was everywhere. There was a huge bar with a dozen different bartenders working at a frantic pace but still falling behind. Waiters scurrying around. Busboys running.
And there were plenty of girls out circulating the tables, as well, sitting on laps, rubbing their breasts against some poor clods cheek, whereupon he would dumbfoundedly deposit a $20 bill into the elastic of her thong, along with the dozens of others.
I mean, what the hell?
I knew right away that I was not in the Gentlemen’s Club of Dostoyevsky, or джентльменский клуб, as we would call it, but instead some bizarre apparition of the future, some demented transformation; the science fiction of 1880, come to life. Pretty nice, though.
It was about then I started noticing I was getting a boner; pretty embarrassing, right? So to the street I ran. Phew!
It was raining now and thank god. There is nothing like a good cold shower when the hormones are fuming. Works every time. 1 AM and raining. The streets now empty. As I walked the 8 blocks back to the apartment, the world had shifted a degree. Ana and her compatriots will never live again on this earth. Othello is gone. Odysseus. Gilgamesh.
As I walk, seeing the light from the widows of those still awake, pale and shallow through the light rain, thinking, thinking. Is this the sum total of the work of so many writers?