What a Wonderful World This Would Be

Because my sister accepted her first official position as an Associate Clinical Social Worker since finishing grad school in May, celebrating this next accomplishment was a must. While I was thinking inside the box, BJ's and spinach dip, Jackie was dreaming big. She found a bar online in downtown L.A. that specialized in rum, upbeat music, and a twenty dollar membership fee. My natural response to that, of course, was, "What?! I have to pay to get into a place so I can buy a drink?" 

But my sister wasn't relying on my company to commence this new stage of her life. Aware of my home-body tendencies, she and her best friend since middle school started primping with an ETA of 45 minutes. So I contemplated the day's menu: Friday night out or Friday night mani/pedi. I reminded myself that I'd towed my Steve Madden pointy black heels for a reason. I wanted this, especially after returning to work following a two month hiatus and dubbing the past five days The Longest Week ever. I was in desperate need of recharging my batteries and a savory cocktail and music to feed the soul sounded like the perfect remedy I had envisioned. Leaving the killjoy behind, I went to my room to prep my face for the night time look. 

After picking Brenda up, we headed downtown with dread for obvious reasons: traffic and parking. Traffic I could tolerate but it's the parking situation I cannot stand from an ethical standpoint. It's ridiculous that every trip to the hub of L.A. requires what should be called an entrance fee, anywhere between four to twenty-five dollars, just to leave your vehicle in a lot to go spend more money on dinner, drinks, or dancing. Luckily, though, said club was a block east from L.A. Live, far enough from the pedestrian congestion, with a parking establishment directly across for the bargain price of ten dollars. Unbeknownst to me, Jackie had already paid for her membership from home, which allowed up to seven friends to tag along, and we were in quickly without a hassle. $30 spent and the fun hadn't even begun. 

Cool painting outside the club.

The club seemed to be the ideal place for an introvert like me right from the get-go. It was pretty dead, perfect for my claustrophobia, but I guess it was still early when we arrived. The DJ's welcomed us to an island we'd never been, with Caribbean tunes, tropical printed shirts, and straw fedora hats worn by the bartenders. We had been transported to Havana, Cuba in less than five miles and were loving it. We studied the drink menu where all the choices were the right answers. I was deciding between a Mai Tai, Pina Colada, and Rum and Coke. But in the end, I chose a Pina Colada with its promise of pineapple juice and coconut flavors that made my mouth water. And it did not disappoint. My first sip took me directly home where the flavors of a vanilla raspado I had often purchased from the men selling shaved ice in my parent's neighborhood resembled the sweetness of my drink. I was definitely in my happy place, possibly even my new favorite place, but it was too early to tell.  

Brenda and I followed Jackie outside to the patio with our drinks in tow. Two walls were covered in mirrors to make the quaint area look bigger than what it was. There were some shingles on the roof but it was mostly uncovered. Cliques filled every space. Some smoked cigars but most drank from straws inserted in coconut shells, talked, laughed, and danced. Everyone minded their own business, whether they were with their significant other, on a date, with friends, or coworkers. Brenda noticed quickly that most males wore coats which we deemed weird because guys didn't tend to dress up that much to a club. But I concluded that they had enough money for the membership so they could afford to dress to impress. By no means were we complaining, simply admiring. And not only did the opposite sex look attractive, they also turned out to be polite, like the one with three drinks who excused himself when he cut through us to get to his posse. It appeared we had stepped into a perfect world, where people honestly respected one another while having clean fun. That's when I started to believe in the perks of a members-only club.

View from the patio, looking up.

After killing our first round, Brenda put the pressure on Jackie by stating that we were going to burn the cocktail calories by hitting the dance floor. I didn't care, I loved dancing, but Jackie panicked, especially when we were the only ones grooving.

Besties since 1995.

Slowly, more dancers cramped our style. An older couple showed off their advanced salsa moves, a tall white couple with two left feet didn't let that stop them from shaking what their mommas gave them, white girls in tight black dresses with enviable physiques moved side to side, and a Hispanic couple made me wish I had a partner to dance with again. 

Selfie attempt #1: too dark.

Selfie attempt #2: too bright.

Selfie attempt #3: problem solving.

Selfie attempt #4: problem solved. 

During the second round of drinks (water for Jackie, she had the passenger-friendly vehicle), a couple of guys asked us to dance. They were younger than us but supposedly possessed degrees from various UC campuses as well as private universities. They claimed to be lawyers/entrepreneurs, web designers, and film makers. We learned even more about each other by switching partners and talking about work and familial backgrounds. At one point, the youngin with the green eyes I was conversing with excused himself to get a drink of water. He apologized for the interruption but I laughed it off, thinking it was funny how thirsty he must've been, never considering the possibility he'd been desperate to get away from me; I admired his honesty and dedication to hydration. I took the moment to rest my feet and reapply my lipstick when a tall and slender African American male offered his hand and swept me to the dance floor as soon as the DJ switched to reggae. He bent a foot down to talk to me, which made his long braids fall over his shoulder where I caught a whiff of the pomade he used to keep his tresses impeccable. Even he claimed, too, to have studied at USC and was a self proclaimed movie producer (Oh God. It just hit me: he might have been famous and I forever lost my opportunity at having a lot of money.)

I was completely aware that the men, young and old, could have been bullshitting us about their education and careers. But it just didn't seem likely because they weren't selling themselves. We were simply using our jobs to fuel conversations and establish commonalities like every human being seeks when meeting new people. They shared their dreams and accomplishments and so did we. Our exchanges about politics, music, and Mexican roots created an easy dialogue. The creepy, just-got-out-of-jail feeling that usually came along with guys at bars was absent that night and that realization was great. It was evident that the people who joined this club did so for their love of meeting other professionals and networking within a setting where they could practice what they learned at their last salsa lesson.

The lights came on in the middle of a song and we were all surprised at how quickly the time had passed. I had been sleepier when I first hit the floor than at 2am. The African American man seized the opportunity to ask for my number but I gently declined by expressing my gratitude for him dancing with me which he respectfully accepted without a fight. His reaction took me by surprise since I'm used to some guys begging and pleading for contact information. But Mr. Black Man was a gentleman. We said our goodbyes with a hug that culminated our brief encounter. He took a seat by his friend and I rejoined Jackie, Brenda, and our new friends shortly before the bartender officially kicked us out. We walked out together and chatted a little more outside until their Uber picked them up by the side of the curb.

Once in our car, Jackie, Brenda, and I agreed that the celebration had been a success. Jackie claimed to have been stimulated by the fact the all of the dudes we spoke to were (supposedly) educated and seemed to be following their career goals at their tender ages of 26 and 28. Meeting them had been stress-free because they never made a move or asked us for our numbers, although that might have been due to the number of times Jackie and I stressed how much older we were than them that probably turned them off. Maybe not. Maybe they were really focused on their goals and simply wanted an enjoyable night to recharge for the hustle the next morning. Who knows. But we were glad we were able to drive home without breaking hearts or broken hearts ourselves.

This club definitely had a unique vibe, different than anything I'd ever experienced. Jackie said it reminded her of a happy hour place she frequented in Oakland where status didn't depend on the car you drove but what you had between your temples. One of the guys gave Jackie his business card before heading home and that's how I would describe this members-only club: a networking bar that allowed you to destress after a long work week with a dose of rum, tropical beats, and intellectual conversations. I think I have discovered the answer for peace on Earth.

"Oh, what a wonderful world this would be..."