Chicago (VI)

You and cliche dealer walk. He talks. You mostly walk. The two of you pause about a half block down the street from Manor. Manor is one of Chicago's few legit hotspots.

It's Chicago's Tenjune -- not that Tenjune is still cool, but you get the point. It's an institution here. Your local friends crash the spot regularly for bottle service and it's somewhat justified. The girls are generally young, obnoxious, and arrogant -- but cute. Almost worth the drama.


Tonight, there's something going on at the club. Packed outside the entrance are a crowd of Koreans in all black formalwear. Must be twenty to thirty Asians standing around, looking awkwardly overdressed. Oh wait, that's just a normal night at Manor.


The Asian phase is part of the natural life cycle of any spot. First, a place is legitimately underground. Unknown. Cool. Then, the scenesters learn about it. The place is still certifiably cool during the scenester phase, but obnoxiously hard to get into, and generally pretentious as fuck. The Asian phase is the third phase and is generally pretty mellow. Very status quo. The scenesters coexist with the Asians, and both parties are content to enjoy the spot, but both know the end is near. Then comes the finance-douchebag phase. Bankers, corporate lawyers, traders, VCs, fuck it, anyone remotely in the industry. The club loves them because they drop money on bottles like nobody else. But well, they're douchebags. Everyone else is not so much with the loving of these tools. The Asian peel out as soon as the finance guys show up, but the scenesters stick around -- just not the cute ones.


After the finance douchebag phase? Death. It's sometimes quite prolonged, but it's equally quite inevitable. A critical mass of non-cuteness and general doucheness spark a gradual and then sudden exodus to a new venue.


Your new friend has become less chatty and more pushy. "So what are we doing?"


You look him over again. You aren't on some deserted corner. You're in the middle of downtown nightlife. Crowded street. Well lit. Cars driving by constantly. Impossible to know who's watching you. Having spent years living in B-more, it ain't exactly new territory to be buying in broad daylight, but the yo-kids are a good deal more subtle. This guy is blatantly working the sell in front of bystanders with no apprehension whatsoever. Fishy.


You've long been paranoid of running into an undercover in a situation like this, but it always felt like something that belonged more in movies or on television than in real life. Doesn't stop you from following the caution that anyone not retarded follows. Never name anything explicit. Never name a quantity. Keep prices vague.

Your dealer continues to impress, "60 a gram. 200 for an eighth."

He's either a cop or retarded. Or both.