The coat check is still in the same place and a fist pops up from beneath the counter like a hand out of a grave as we step into the entrance.There’s a white charging cord trapped between the clenched fingers, an exclamation of “Fuckingfinally,” and then a head appears.A triumphant smile stretches across the face of a woman a few years younger than us before she catches sight of Laurie and me on the other side of the counter.
“Oh, sorry.”She flushes, holding the charging cord to her chest like the precious treasure it is.“I’ve been looking for this for an hour.Somehow our normal cleaning crew was canceled this morning, and whatever last-minute contractors they were able to get in have messed everything up.I can’t findanything.”She untangles the cable before plugging it into the iPad in front of her.“Sorry again.Are you here for our speed date tonight?”
“Yeah, we are,” I answer.“Jamie Prescott and Laurie Hamilton.”
“IDs?”
She gives them a passing glance when we offer them, more preoccupied with finding our names on her screen and quickly ticking them off with a tap of her finger.
“I just have to check that you know you’ve booked our hetero event for the twenty-five to thirty-five age bracket.We have a queer speed date, same age bracket, taking placenextTuesday.I know the site can be confusing, some people just see the age bracket—”
“Tragically, we are both straight,” Laurie says drily, and I can’t help but snort.
The woman’s pinched face softens in amusement.“Can’t relate.Though all the men who have come through so far seem nice.Normal.”
Whateverthatmeans.
“Let’s get you checked in before you go downstairs.”
She takes our coats, our phones, our handbags, and Laurie’s smartwatch.This was what attracted Laurie to this event in the first place.Apparently, taking away our devices and belongings encourages more robust conversation by removing the temptation to glance at your notifications, or dig around in your purse, avoiding eye contact.It seems like overkill, but I’m capable of a digital detox for a couple of hours.I watch our phones go into marked bags with the same number as our coats before they’re placed into a lockbox, the coat check attendant detailing the particulars of our night as she bullies our coats onto hangers and carries them to a rack at the back of the room.
Ten men, ten women, ten minutes per date and just a handful of rules:
No digital devices.
Don’t discuss your day job (“a person is more than their profession”).
Keep it light and polite.
Move on when the bell rings.
It’s easy enough to remember, and as an academic and former teacher’s pet, I can follow a rule like my life depends on it.
“The ladies will have cocktail hour downstairs in the basement bar, while the gentlemen have been directed up to the mezzanine bar.Your host, Marion, will be available for any questions before the men are escorted down to meet you.As you know, your drinks are included in the ticket price, so please drink responsibly.”The harried tone of her voice and the distant look in her eyes tells me these instructions are part of her muscle memory, but I don’t hold it against her when she adds, a little wearily, “This is the first time we’ve hosted an event here and we’re a little understaffed.Our security guy is running late, so until he gets here, let Marion or one of the bartenders know if you feel uncomfortable at any time.”
With that warning, she gestures to the long, thin staircase thatruns up along the wall to the mezzanine and down to the basement.It’s just wide enough to allow guys ample opportunities to grab on to a female waist to “get past” on their journey up or down a level, and there’s another set on the other side of the club.Each set of stairs makes the shape of a giant arrow, the one closest to us pointing to the front of the building—and the only exit I remember in this three-floor adult playground—while the other is a point in the opposite direction.
I glance toward the entry to the dance floor, and of course it’s empty, but when I lift my gaze to the mezzanine, I see movement.It’s just far away enough, and the lighting dim enough, that I can make out the silhouettes of tonight’s bachelors as they socialize in front of the bar.They circle around up there, looking down at the open space like it’s a gladiator ring and the entertainment is going to burst onto the floor and draw blood for their amusement.
“Let’s go,” Laurie says as I’m staring into the darkness, giving me a swift tap on the butt that sends me in the direction of the staircase.I hand her my coat check ticket to keep safe in the pocket of her jumpsuit, glancing back up at the mezzanine just before we dip below ground level.It’s then I catch a glimpse of a shadow leaning against the railing, the dark shape of a head dipped in our direction.It’s a blink-and-miss moment, but as I walk down the stairs, the bottom of my shoes sticking to the thin coat of dried alcohol that coats the steps like varnish, a prickle breaks out across the back of my neck.The shiver is followed by a brief clench in my stomach, an anxious pulse I’m used to experiencing at the beginning of these phone-free events, when my brain wants to flick through all the bad scenarios of how tonight could play out in some misguided attempt at self-preservation.I choose to ignore it as I follow Laurie down to the basement level.
After all… What’s the worst that could happen?
CHAPTER 3
“This is the type of girl he wants to murder!This is what I need to become to be slaughtered!”
—NotLegally Blonde
Talk about overkill.
If I thought the first level of the club was bathed in red, it’s nothing compared to the basement beneath it.It’s like we’ve walked into a bloody beating heart from the way the flickering electric candles within the gas lamps glow against the velvet curtains.They make the walls look like they’re pulsing.The booths on the right side give the room an atrium-like curve, and to our left—favoring a longer, more ventricle-like shape—is the bar.A lone bartender lifts his head in greeting when we walk in, in the middle of pouring a drink for a woman who has her back to us.Ten tables are set up in the middle of the room, evenly spaced around a small dance floor.The seating arrangement is like two parentheses, leaving a mingling space in the middle where five other women are holding drinks and chatting.
Laurie and I make a beeline for the bar, but before we can get too close to any kind of social lubricant, a voice behind us brings me to a halt.
“Ladies!”
A woman in her fifties with a dark bob and even darker eyes pushes off the booth closest to the door, clipboard in one hand and a practiced smile on her face.
