Pink Jones (5.a)
It rains on us all the way to Cleo’s, but luckily the walk’s not far. Across from the convention hall everything’s under construction, chain link fence and scaffolding wrapping around buildings for blocks. The nail guns and jack hammers are quiet this time of night, but the cranes cast strange shadows over the sidewalk. It’s October, and after 10pm, so the sun’s gone down. I don’t mind. We didn’t really see it all day, anyway.
The sidewalks are crowded with con-goers heading home or out for a late dinner. More than a few are going us on our way toward Cleo’s. It’s always busy but Danny, one of the bartenders, spent the afternoon passing out fliers in the Exhibitors Hall – “Martini Blast – Shake it up – Half Price Power Hour 11 to Midnight” – so it’s bound to be packed tonight, groin to groin.
I think sadly of my lost beer and bedtime as I watch Grace try to keep her tutu from getting squished between pedestrians. She thinks I don’t know she wears it because of me; her own gruesome version of subtle cosplay, her ballerina girl accessory to what she styles as my brooding Byronic demeanor. Grace might make an ugly noise about paparazzi and autographs, but she likes to put me in the spotlight whenever we’re out because if she plays her cards right that usually means free drinks and free food. Grace, for all her father’s money, is broke as shit.
Her ploy usually works the first hour if she’s lucky. Once I get a few drinks in me I’m a laughing ping pong ball on the dance floor, hardly brooding, plus I’m positive Lord Byron never wore ugly-ass sweaters. In the dark people forget I’m supposed to be a tragic hero, and Grace remembers that dancing in a crowded club a tutu is just fucking annoying and tosses all that pink tulle into a corner.
The entrance to Cleo’s is clogged. We stand in the rain, wait our turn. Grace takes my hand and swings it back and forth. There are a few brave news idiots with cameras, mostly taking pictures of people still in cosplay. A cop car wails buy, lights flashing. I look up at the sky as we wait, getting rain in my eyes. There are no stars above Manhattan, only high rise windows flickering bright or dark.
When we finally scrape up to the front I don’t recognize the bouncer. He doesn’t know me, either, though he comments on my ink. Grace stands at my side, fuming as he checks our IDs and then stamps our hands. Cleo’s is very vintage. No colored paper bracelets; glow in the dark butterfly stamps are more fun.
Inside it would be pitch except for the blue-light strobes and flashing disco balls and a eight-armed octopus chandelier hanging over the bar. The DJ, up on his pedestal, is playing a fine Artic Fox/Pink Jones mash-up. The floor is so tight it’s like one giant people-ameba wiggling back and forth. Everyone’s laughing and shouting and basically coming down or going up after a long Thursday.
Grace heads straight for the dance floor. I make for the bar. It’s a cluster fuck of thirsty people but I squeeze my way in. Danny’s working the left corner and two gay boys I know by face but not by name are tending middle and right. When at last I’m up I order three shots of Patron Silver straight up, no salt or lime, and slam all three straight back.
The person guarding a stool against my elbow and nursing a glass of red wine purrs in appreciation.
“Oh, honey,” they warn, shouting over the thump of Pink Jones’ trademark bass. “You’ll be feeling that in no time.”
“Not me.” I lean in close so they can see my grin and hear my secret. “Tequila and I have a very friendly relationship.”
They’re dressed head to toe in tight black leather except for the striped scarf hung loosely over their shoulders. Black, white, grey and purple; they’re ace. Also cute as hell in an Eartha Kitt sort of way, all long legs and stacked heels. When they slide off the stool I’m betting they’ll be at least a foot taller than me.
They laugh before finishing their wine in one elegant swallow.
“Your sweater’s atrocious, and your sandals are just a fuck-you to the entire fashion industry,” they say, smiling wide enough to crack a few hearts. “I like your style. My name’s Rose. Care to dance?”
I’m in the middle of finalizing NYCC plans. SKETCHBOOK will be there in some form on my vendor’s table, along with my other books. Can’t wait! SO SO can’t wait!
Also, if I were talented enough to pull together a band, I’d totally name it Pink Jones.
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