Issue #20 (2011) PDF - myweb - Long Island University
Issue #20 (2011) PDF - myweb - Long Island University
Issue #20 (2011) PDF - myweb - Long Island University
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Ana Almurani<br />
BOURBON AND CHOCOLATE<br />
Almost every night, there is a line outside of Downtown, the Lower East Side‘s newest addition to the<br />
string of bars suffocating Avenue B. Painters, poets, and musicians mostly. She stands outside in<br />
her cherry-red knee-length skirt and a lacy ivory sweater unbuttoned just enough to reveal the<br />
inviting jet black corset ―hiding‖ underneath. Her cleavage attracts stares from both men and<br />
women bustling by; some cast looks of desire or jealousy, others of disgust. She pretends not to<br />
enjoy the attention, but she knows that inside she is flattered to be in the spotlight for even one<br />
fleeting moment. She knew the type of attention her outfit would attract even before she put it on.<br />
She teeters on 3-inch stiletto heels, which bring her to a total height of 5‘10, as she leans against<br />
Downtown‘s outside wall smoking a cigarette. Her straw-blonde hair adheres in loose curls to her<br />
highly-placed cheekbones, which she‘s received compliments about since the days of ballet recitals.<br />
To her, those days seem too long gone.<br />
She makes sure to use one of her heels to stomp out the ember of her cigarette once it has<br />
reached its final resting place among a sea of dozens of others discarded butts. She gets sad when<br />
she sees the piles of litter that define New York, her hometown, growing at the rate of well-nurtured<br />
toddlers, but finds that she contributes to the problem. She tosses eleven cigarette butts a day on<br />
average. The thought of not yet having a child of her own to watch grow is on her mind almost<br />
constantly.<br />
After ten minutes of waiting on line, she reaches the bouncer. Her ear catches loud chatter<br />
coming from inside. ―I can‘t wait to hear him play,‖ a rather shrill voice is chirping.<br />
The older, muscular man stationed at the front door asks to see her identification. She often<br />
still gets carded at bars and clubs; her smooth, milky skin resembles that of a porcelain china doll<br />
and makes her look younger than her 29 years of age. He is genuine when he says, ―Enjoy your<br />
night, Magdalena,‖ as he hands back her I.D. She hadn‘t heard him telling that to any of the other<br />
women on the line before her.<br />
She walks over to the bar and asks to see a wine list before ordering an overpriced glass of<br />
Pinot Grigio. She sips the chilled wine at a quick, steady pace while observing the lounge itself,<br />
taking in as many details as she can since it her first time at Downtown. There is a wooden stage of<br />
about thirty feet in length to the left of the bar. A thick, black curtain is hanging, blocking threequarters<br />
of the performance area. As she looks around, she sees many neon colored posters<br />
covering nearly every space of the walls. Their loudness is apparent, as if she could hear them yelling<br />
to her, ―no, come to this show. cover only $5. fuck their band‖ in attempts to out due one another.<br />
The competition among musicians and artists to gain notoriety in an over-crowded city like New<br />
York is ridiculous; so much talent is untapped as a result of discouragement from unattended shows.<br />
The bricks of the walls, natural to the building long before Downtown opened, are covered and<br />
forgotten.<br />
One poster stands out to her from all the rest because it bears no color at all. Vertical black<br />
and white stripes intended to resemble piano keys occupy the length of its 24 inch borders. She<br />
squints to read ―Matthew Daniels‖ ―this Friday, April 2‖ ―Downtown‖ written in three centered lines<br />
in very minimal golden block-lettering at the bottom of the poster. There is no picture of Matthew<br />
Daniels, no allusion to the type of show his audience should expect.<br />
The corners of Magdalena‘s lacquered lips curl into a smile of appreciation for Matthew‘s<br />
soft-spoken and elusive advertisement. She pictures an older, dignified gentleman with a streak of<br />
gray in his hair sitting behind an equally distinguished piano on which the black polish is so finished,<br />
4