Issue #20 (2011) PDF - myweb - Long Island University

Ana Almurani
BOURBON AND CHOCOLATE
Almost every night, there is a line outside of Downtown, the Lower East Side‘s newest addition to the
string of bars suffocating Avenue B. Painters, poets, and musicians mostly. She stands outside in
her cherry-red knee-length skirt and a lacy ivory sweater unbuttoned just enough to reveal the
inviting jet black corset ―hiding‖ underneath. Her cleavage attracts stares from both men and
women bustling by; some cast looks of desire or jealousy, others of disgust. She pretends not to
enjoy the attention, but she knows that inside she is flattered to be in the spotlight for even one
fleeting moment. She knew the type of attention her outfit would attract even before she put it on.
She teeters on 3-inch stiletto heels, which bring her to a total height of 5‘10, as she leans against
Downtown‘s outside wall smoking a cigarette. Her straw-blonde hair adheres in loose curls to her
highly-placed cheekbones, which she‘s received compliments about since the days of ballet recitals.
To her, those days seem too long gone.
She makes sure to use one of her heels to stomp out the ember of her cigarette once it has
reached its final resting place among a sea of dozens of others discarded butts. She gets sad when
she sees the piles of litter that define New York, her hometown, growing at the rate of well-nurtured
toddlers, but finds that she contributes to the problem. She tosses eleven cigarette butts a day on
average. The thought of not yet having a child of her own to watch grow is on her mind almost
constantly.
After ten minutes of waiting on line, she reaches the bouncer. Her ear catches loud chatter
coming from inside. ―I can‘t wait to hear him play,‖ a rather shrill voice is chirping.
The older, muscular man stationed at the front door asks to see her identification. She often
still gets carded at bars and clubs; her smooth, milky skin resembles that of a porcelain china doll
and makes her look younger than her 29 years of age. He is genuine when he says, ―Enjoy your
night, Magdalena,‖ as he hands back her I.D. She hadn‘t heard him telling that to any of the other
women on the line before her.
She walks over to the bar and asks to see a wine list before ordering an overpriced glass of
Pinot Grigio. She sips the chilled wine at a quick, steady pace while observing the lounge itself,
taking in as many details as she can since it her first time at Downtown. There is a wooden stage of
about thirty feet in length to the left of the bar. A thick, black curtain is hanging, blocking threequarters
of the performance area. As she looks around, she sees many neon colored posters
covering nearly every space of the walls. Their loudness is apparent, as if she could hear them yelling
to her, ―no, come to this show. cover only $5. fuck their band‖ in attempts to out due one another.
The competition among musicians and artists to gain notoriety in an over-crowded city like New
York is ridiculous; so much talent is untapped as a result of discouragement from unattended shows.
The bricks of the walls, natural to the building long before Downtown opened, are covered and
forgotten.
One poster stands out to her from all the rest because it bears no color at all. Vertical black
and white stripes intended to resemble piano keys occupy the length of its 24 inch borders. She
squints to read ―Matthew Daniels‖ ―this Friday, April 2‖ ―Downtown‖ written in three centered lines
in very minimal golden block-lettering at the bottom of the poster. There is no picture of Matthew
Daniels, no allusion to the type of show his audience should expect.
The corners of Magdalena‘s lacquered lips curl into a smile of appreciation for Matthew‘s
soft-spoken and elusive advertisement. She pictures an older, dignified gentleman with a streak of
gray in his hair sitting behind an equally distinguished piano on which the black polish is so finished,
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