It’s Thursday night, I’m underneath The Mercer awaiting a performance by Valerie Geffner and there is hardly any room to move. Unfortunately, there still was room to breath because some fool made the mistake eating some sort of garlic laced entrée as his dinner. Getting as far away from whoever it was as I could I found myself next to a bubbly blond who looked something like Pee Wee Herman’s friend Dottie, you know, the one who ran the bike shop and had the huge crush on him during is big adventure? If she isn’t a good place to start then I don’t know what is.
“What’s your name?”
“Do you know this singer Beki? Do you know what we’re in for? Do you know where she’s even going to sing?”
“I don’t know her, no. Never heard her. I thought they’d take us to another room with a stage.”
“Word is she’s gonna do it right here. Walk through the crowd as she sings, or climb over them I suppose. So what do you do?”
“I’m a singer too, in a band. Beki & The Bullets.”
“What kind of music? And where are you from?”
“We’re pop, new wave, fun stuff. Think Cyndi Lauper meets The Cure meets The GoGos. We’re from Australia.”
“That does sound fun. More fun than this is gonna be.”
“You know the performer tonight?”
“No, but I had a listen before I came. So I’m really hoping the performance makes it worth it.”
Out of the corner of my eye I see a woman with a dead crow glued to her shoulder. I think to myself, “I have got to get the number of her taxidermist.” But it’s so cramped that I can’t give chase and just like my second vodka, she’s gone. I push my way to the bar and manage to slide in and order another drink. Did I mention that the bar wasn’t open? It’s already 11:30 and Valerie was supposed to go on at 11:00. Seriously, I really hope she’s good. I really need her to be good at this point because the drinks I’m paying for are paying my patience and there’s no telling what might happen if I find myself disappointed.