506 Milligrams of Caffeine or Allison Goes to the Club
With So Much Public Transit | Iss. 3 Vol. 9
Friday
8:30 a.m. Iced Strawberry Matcha, Penn Station
The bachelorette starts in eight hours. I woke up three hours ago on a boat and have since been scammed by a fake taxi driver. A woman in the train station bathroom was balancing a 10-piece Cuisinart pots and pans set still in the box on top of her roller bag.
I have arrived in New York with no plan for my Ferris Bueller free time between the cruise and the bachelorette. Will and I share breakfast in what will, starting at 10 a.m., be the seating for an Irish pub.
On Will’s departure at 9:15, I realize the pub is not the only thing still closed until 10. I spend the next forty-five minutes wandering through Midtown and googling, in the following order:
K-Beauty stores
Places to get my hair done
Expensive department stores
At 10 a.m. I spend $63 dollars on skincare and makeup in about 10 minutes at a K Beauty store. I now worry that one of these products has given me a rash. (On further reflection, this might a) just be acne or b) caused by a different product because I think it started before this day.)
Due to this fiscal irresponsibility, but not yet the rash, I determine my time in Manhattan needs to come to a close. On the way to what turns out to be an express train that skips the stop I want, I google, in the following order:
Places to get my hair done in Brooklyn
Things to do in Williamsburg
Movie theatres
The Brooklyn museum.
A stranger at the hotel desk takes my bag without checking if I have a reservation or if, just as an example, the mom of someone I don’t know has put my name on that reservation. (She has not.)
11:17 a.m. Iced Matcha Latte, Williamsburg
After acquiring my tea I attempt to hang my purse on what looks close enough to a hook in the coffee shop bathroom, only to pull the entire soap dispenser out of the wall.
On the recommendation of strangers on reddit I proceed towards a series of vintage clothing stores for which I am neither the right clothing size nor the right economic station. All of them are organized by color.
My shoes, which I bought at a vintage store not organized by color some months ago, are half a size too big and rub, somehow, at the bottom of my heel.
As my phone battery and my time for adventure fade, I come to resent Williamsburg.
In a fit of whimsy I enter a store selling $285 candles. One of several employees standing around looking intimidating discreetly informs me that my fly is down. My best guess is that it’s been that way for 40 minutes since the soap dispenser incident.
At a vegan deli near the movie theater, I eat a reasonable approximation of an Italian sub and eavesdrop on a goth French woman and an NYU photography student who would like to photograph things that are gritty and explicit, but might also move somewhere and work as an au pair because she’s a really spontaneous person. She has a tattoo of the Internet Explorer logo.
At another vintage store I do not purchase $400 Prada kitten heels.
12:43 p.m. Off-Brand Cola Slushee, Williamsburg Cinema
The “bargain day” deal at this movie theater is $13. I pay the full $15 because it’s Friday.
Celine Song’s sophomore film Materialists, is good but not as good as Past Lives, a perfect film. I sit in the dark for two hours and finish my non-Coke or Icee branded Coke Icee.
There is a long line at the hotel check-in, as I have arrived five minutes after rooms are ready. With my phone at less than 15% battery I take a work zoom call in the lobby bar.
My name is not on the reservation. I don’t know the first or last name of the mom who reserved it. I have her phone number and the confirmation number, but the group chat alerts me that someone whose name is on the reservation is also at the hotel bar, and at this point I give up and decide to wait.
The group chat also says that the theme for the evening is “cowboy chic,” which was not announced in advance and later turns out to be a bit. I wear jeans anyway, and the shoes that are too big.
At 15 milligrams, the Coke Icee will be the lowest caffeine beverage of the weekend, and the exhaustion starts to overtake me before 5 p.m.
It is also at this time that the detailed itinerary for the weekend starts to fall apart. One bar has already been discarded as having bad vibes and our reservation at a Mexican restaurant is quickly moved from 6 p.m. to 8.
This allows for significantly more time sitting on someone’s porch, which is surprisingly large for the size of the Fort Greene basement apartment.
Lacking any current opportunities for caffeine, I fuel myself on non-alcoholic rose and crackers with cheese. I have chosen a chair slightly too far from the crudite to take advantage of it.
At no point over the course of the afternoon did I follow through on googling salon blowouts, so my hair is growing increasingly frizzy. I experiment with different style options in the apartment bathroom and settle on pulling two face framing pieces out of my half-pony, a change that is definitely different and other people will definitely notice.
There are many temporary tattoos available on this porch, but none of the groom’s face due to a packing error. The bride calls the scorpion I affix to my wrist “trampy in a fun way.”
8:30 p.m. Diet Coke, Mexican Restaurant
Amidst the ordering of margarita pitchers, someone begins to show the group pictures of their dog, thank goodness. However, I begin to be concerned that my hearing will be damaged by the volume of this Mexican restaurant.
On the way to the subway two of the only women in heels walk half a block ahead of everyone else.
I board my third subway train of the day, not to be confused with the PATH train I took due to the taxi driver deciding to only scam us as far as Jersey City, rather than Manhattan.
The Nationals briefly hold a lead in tonight’s game against the Dodgers.
At karaoke, someone finds a trio of tambourines. In attempting to buy a bottle of water from the front desk of the karaoke place, I am informed that I have not met the $10 card minimum. I buy five bottles of water.
The woman next to me begins sending snapchat videos. The bachelor party, I am informed, as currently at a strip club. The Nationals give up their lead.
My worries of hearing damage increase, this time paired with concern over the flashing lights endemic to the karaoke room.
In addition to the tambourine, someone has pulled out a paper hand fan.
On the return subway trip, we are informed that everyone must exit the train because it’s being turned around. The Nationals attempt a comeback and fall short. New York subway stations are not air conditioned.
I retire to a bunk bed at 1:49 a.m.
Saturday
9 a.m. Iced Matcha, Coffee Shop Across From the Hotel
The bride “isn’t really a breakfast person,” but as a group we make our way to a coffee shop with enough time to spare before 10 a.m. yoga. Two women who split off from the group to get bagels are abandoned without remorse. I am nearly also abandoned due to the speed of the L train doors.
I have paired my too-large sneakers with too-thin socks. These shoes are part of my attempt, mandated by my gender, to attempt to look cute while exercising.
Against all odds, we arrive at yoga in Central Park on time. It immediately becomes clear that I am about to be shown up at yoga by a woman who is nine months pregnant.
The park is full of dogs. One peaked out from under a bathroom stall at me. Another is trying to eat a sprinkler.
The yoga teacher informs us that her first child (not this one) was conceived in a tent on acid at an adult summer camp. She also advises us on potential locations to have sex at the specific nightclub we plan to attend.
Returning from yoga, I attempt not to be run down by bicycles.
At lunch I stand in a massive line for the bathroom, at the end of which an authoritative but not particularly detailed member of staff says “bathroom yes or no,” and I fail to answer and am therefore not escorted into the men’s room where he would stand guard in front of the stall.
1 p.m. Strawberry Matcha with Brown Sugar Boba, Time Out Market
I order vegan tsukemen (dipping noodles), which I have never had before. Accompanied by the boba they are delicious. The restaurant’s order system glitches and I am charged twice.
At a cat cafe, a kitten curls up against me to cuddle and my heart grows two sizes. Don’t tell Roxie.
5 p.m. Diet Coke, Williamsburg Bodega
After failing to rest meaningfully before going out, I dress in a hot pink matching vest and skort, as well as a real bra and sneakers.
At dinner, news breaks that the United States has bombed Iran. My corner of the restaurant patio grows very quiet as we all pull out our phones.
On the walk to the first bar, I put in earbuds to watch the president address the nation. At said bar, I worry that I may catch something in the bathroom, the floor of which is inexplicably wet.
The best man, who I have met twice, remembers that I don’t drink. “They have a lot of sick non-alcoholic options here.”
We finally arrive at the club, where we are attending an event described as “genre-fluid rave simulation designed to animate your avatar.” My best guess is that this means it is a dance party. In preparation, I request body glitter from the maid of honor.
The club appears to be a colorful but otherwise unextraordinary dive bar. When doors are opened to the dance floor, it becomes clear it is actually a gay Tim Burton circus.
The lead drag queen has gloves with lasers on the fingers. These would likely not be practical for daily wear, but I covet them anyway.
The Nationals take a lead for the second night in a row.
I take my once every several years opportunity to enjoy dancing in this setting. I wish, however, for more songs with words. The DJ does briefly sample Amy Winehouse’s “Rehab,” which I appreciate.
After two days and three nights of partying, the best man calls it quits. “Take care of yourself, stick with the girls.”
The Nationals expand their lead.
I order a mocktail and almost immediately spill it on the floor. Unfortunately this has now happened to me twice in three days.
The head drag queen has changed from laser gloves into a costume that covers her whole top half and looks like a tongue and lips. I would like to know whether this was purchased or sewn custom.
I remember that I have recently acquired pink sunglasses, which I don with my pink outfit. The bride and maid of honor dance onstage. The Nationals defeat the Dodgers, 7-3.
Sunday
I wake up an hour before my 8:30 alarm and manage to shower off some of the body glitter. In the hallway outside the hotel room, I hug the bride, who I hope will get more sleep after I leave. She seems really happy.
9 a.m. Iced Matcha, Coffeeshop Across from the Hotel
This time I remember to order the matcha sweetened, and then board my last subway train of the weekend, not to be confused with the three and a half hour Amtrak that will take me home.
I stand outside an Australian brunch restaurant in the rain, waiting for my friends.
10:30 a.m. Chai Latte, Brunch Restaurant
The restaurant is out of prosecco on a Sunday morning during brunch, which may be bad for their long-term economic prospects.
We joke, and I attempt and fail to explain what was happening with the drag queen circus. I learn about the history of the Moynihan Train Hall. I wish for more brunches like this.
What Else
Reading
In preparation for the weekend I read Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas and The Age of Innocence. I enjoyed both but particularly The Age of Innocence, a book about gossip and a man making bad choices.
Eating
We have recently purchased Spicy Sweet Chili flavored Doritos. 10/10.
Watching
On the cruise, there were several shows. One was titled “Flight: Dare to Dream.” My dad informed our group that this was a documentary about the history of aviation. About one minute in, the live singing started. I decided it must be a jukebox musical about the history of aviation. This was not entirely correct.
I lost it the first time when the cast broke into “Good to be Alive (Hallelujah)” while in an honestly very impressive wire-work simulation of zero gravity. This transitioned into “Two Tickets to Paradise,” which might be worse.
The multimedia portion of the show included clips of Elon Musk and Jeff Bezos. Will’s best guess is that this show was written in 2017.
Throughout the show, it was quite easy to pick out which cast members we saw earlier in the week in Hairspray. The actress who played Tracy Turnblad was given very little to do despite her incredible voice. My assumption is this is because she’s fat, and nothing ever changes.
In a dance number by the flight attendants of a fake airline, a singer came into the aisle and I could see up close how dirty she’d been done by the wig department.
To the tune of a Marilyn Manson song, the cast danced through a dream sequence centered on a woman in a red sequin dress. While some of this sequence took place on a plane, I did not feel educated about the history of aviation.
The female cast sang Sara Barielles’ “Brave” as a tribute to the WASP pilots of WW2. Feminism then transitioned into an in media res love story with a hot male pilot (Link Larkin from Hairspray) to the sounds of Bruno Mars’ “The Way You Are.” He sang a duet with his mother about being afraid to die in the war and then, due to the reverse chronological nature of the show, the issue was never addressed again.
In a segment devoted to the incident in which listeners thought Orson Wells’ “War of the Worlds” was a real radio broadcast, aliens danced to “Uptown Funk.” This led almost immediately into an In Memoriam for figures in the history of aviation. It included those killed in the course of their work and those who died much later for unrelated reasons.
The show concluded with an original song sung as a smaller model of the Wright brothers’ plane was hoisted over the audience. My best guess is that the production team came up with this moment, which is genuinely impressive, and then worked backwards from there.
It was one of the strangest pieces of theatre I have ever seen. I’m very glad I thought it was going to be a documentary film.