I’ll never admit this to anyone, especially not my date, but one of the main reasons I accepted this invite is that he was the featured talent. If I’m going to travel across the country to go to a rave with someone I met a week ago, I need more than just the possibility of getting some action to motivate me.
My eyes lock on Helix as he pushes and flips different switches on his equipment, his head bobbing along to the beat and his trademark mask glowing under the hood he always wears.
No one knows anything about who Helix is, and the lore around him is even more mysterious than the pop-up rave we’re at.
He’s been on the scene for the past four years, but he only does a half dozen performances a year, if that. Sometimes they’re huge festivals with crowds in the tens of thousands, and other times it’s an exclusive and off-the-grid rave like this one.
He’s never done any interviews, doesn’t attend events or award shows, even when he’s nominated, and has never accepted any of the awards he’s won. He’s also not signed to a label, and he releases his music through an untraceable numbered company.
No one knows his age, his background, or any details about him other than he’s a white guy, and that’s only because he doesn’t wear gloves, so we can see his hands when he’s working, and he always dresses head to toe in black and wears the same glowing red mask under an oversized hood.
He’s a complete mystery, and he’s gone out of his way to make sure he stays that way.
Normally I don’t give a fuck about the personal lives of celebrities or artists, but the fact that he’s done everything he can to hide who he is makes me curious about him.
I like puzzles, and the best way to make me want something is to tell me I can’t have it.
He looks up from his equipment and turns his head in my direction, and I’m able to see all of his mask under his oversized hood. The white molded plastic looks eerily like a mannequin face, but it’s the fluorescent red lights outlining the mask and theX’s over his eyes and mouth that are his signature look. The mask looks a lot like the ones in that movie where everyone goes berserk and commits whatever crimes they want once a year, but his version is even more eerie.
I’m only about twenty feet from his booth, and even though I know he isn’t looking at me, a prickle of awareness moves through me as it feels like we get locked in a sort of stare-off.
The music swells, and he looks back down at his equipment as he triggers the drop. The crowd goes apeshit as the lights and other effects shift into an epic transition that perfectly matches every beat of the music as strobe lights flicker and towers of sparks ignite next to the projector screen.
Shaking off whatever the fuck that was, I push open the door to the first room and step inside a small space to find a fully stocked bar tucked up against the back wall and high tables scattered around for people to use if they want a break from the music, and the smell of booze and weed is heavy in the air.
The bar, the tables, and even the doorframe and parts of the walls are lit with strips of LED lights that shift from blue to purple to pink in calming waves. The room has good soundproofing, and the music is quiet enough that you can hold a conversation without having to raise your voice.
Instead of getting a drink, I slip back out into the main room and make my way over to the next door.
Behind it is an even smaller room that’s so dark it takes a moment for my eyes to adjust again, but the scattered black lights are enough to show me it’s not empty as flashes of glowing white clothes move around the room.
My eyes are drawn to my stamp as it also glows, and the muted sounds of people enjoying the cover of darkness, and the distinct ways some of them are moving around tell me this is the smash room. I’ve seen rooms like this before at various clubs and pop-up events, but never one that’s as dark and anonymous as this one.
Not bothering to look around, I leave and go to the last door. Inside is another small area that’s lit up the same as the first room and has the same vibe as the smash room, but instead of having a bar, it’s full of couches and chairs and is most likely meant to be where people can enjoy the various nonalcoholic favors they’ve gotten their hands on.
My phone vibrates in my pocket as I’m leaving the favor room, and I pause next to the wall so I can read the text I just got.
Layan: I’m running late. Be there soon x
Another text loads, and it’s a photo of her in a white bodycon dress that looks like a complicated mess of cutouts and bandages that wouldn’t be out of place on a sexy mummy costume.
I send back a few suggestive emoji and slip my phone away.
I have a hard rule for when someone doesn’t show up when they say they will, and she’s got exactly one hour before I bail. Not even that dress and the promise of getting to unravel it from around her tight body is enough to make me wait even a second longer.
Now that I have some time to kill, I slip back into the first room to grab a drink.
“What can I get you?” one of the bartenders asks as soon as I step up to the glowing bar.
I scan the row of bottles behind him and quickly settle on my go-to drink despite the array of expensive and exotic choices. “Vodka soda.”
The bartender pulls one of those stamp readers out from under the bar top and holds it out.
That’s weird. I’ve never been to an event that scanned people’s stamps before they could get a drink, especially when the drinks are provided and it’s not a cash bar.
I want to ask why this is necessary, but I also know the bartender is just the messenger. He’s just a guy they hired to make drinks, not the guy making decisions about protocol, so I stick my hand under the reader without saying a word.
Once the reader flashes, he puts it away and makes my drink with skilled hands, then passes it to me with a friendly smile.
