Chicago

Chicago Club Scene

It's 10pm. Some of your boys are in town. Chicago. Your home town, not theirs.

That home town shit matters. Changes up the rules. You're now accountable for your crew having a good time. If they can't close tonight, it's partially on you. But on the flipside, you've got people who know you in this city, a reputation -- there's a lot of your life you keep outside this city and a lot of shit you don't want tied to you here.

Your friends, well, it's the same spooks as in Vegas. Alpha's here against his will. Then again, he hates everywhere but Vegas.

Cab stops at Erie and LaSalle. You and three of your friends hop out into the night. It's warm. Well, by Chicago standards. Sixty-ish. Warm enough for at least a few skirts. You hope.

The spot is Martini-fucking-Park. The lamest, most embarrassing, was-never-cool place you could possibly spend a night. Your local hometown friend insisted. 'Ridiculous bitches' he claimed. Even Jill has been turning him down lately, so you pity obliged.

It's also maybe true that you didn't fight too hard because every Chicago place is basically the same.

The guys are douchebag finance jocks in Sevens or R&Rs with those untucked, baggy Boss or Zegna button-downs two sizes too big. Crunchy hair. Maybe a few Guido looking motherfuckers in frat-boy Diesels with popped-collar polos. Maybe some Indian or Asian premeds trying to rock the frat boy shit and just looking terribly lost. All with awful shoes and accessories. At least in fucking New York, a banker buys himself a decent watch. The sad thing is every last one of these pieces of shit thinks he's baller and has the attitude to match. Douchebags.

The girls are less fashionista than the guys in this city. Which is perhaps a good thing. But they're old. No club in this city can reliably keep the average age of its women below 25. Shit, I think 30 would be a real stretch. You can consider that stretch-bit a double entendre if you like. This place you're going tonight is notoriously aged. You won't likely talk to more than one or two girls younger than you all night. As for the dress code -- the girls dress conservatively. Jeans and a cami. A few halters. A few little black dresses. Zero jewelry. Except those same big dumb American hoops.

While you're busy daydreaming, Alpha grins to the guys, "One cab here. Four cabs home, gentleman."

You roll your eyes. The others dig it. The local and your other friend hurry inside.

You note the lack of people waiting to get inside. To Alpha, "No line."

"Bad sign."

Inside is as expected. It's still before midnight so the band is still on. All eighties and nineties covers. Lots of Journey. Third Eye Blind. All the old, white, and never-cool get really into it to the point of singing along with the band. It's brutally tragic. Fucking kill me.

After midnight, a DJ replaces the band and it becomes mostly top 40 hip hop. The scene changes up to more of a dance club vibe which is a welcome change from the standing-around-yelling-over-the-band vibe that's going on currently.

The inside space is well designed if nothing else. Two large circular bars. Lots of tables and couches positioned well enough to keep people social. Very clean. A bit too dark and certainly too loud for a place that's supposed to be schmooze-y at this hour. Chicago places are all too dark. Maybe it's to keep the pale mid-western bodies looking better.

You hand your cover to the remarkably unattractive hostess. If this was Vegas...but it's not. You move on. She's wearing a fucking pants suit. Gray suit. White blouse. Hispanic maybe. A little overweight. Not the tiniest fraction of a smile. This is a service industry, right?

Alpha says something to her you can't hear over the band and the two continue talking. Who knows what he's up to.

You think about your character for the night. It's no different than being at the tables really. You pick a persona, an attitude, a story and you leverage it to elicit predictable and manipulable responses. Well, you try. You're better with Poker than girls. Shit, you probably like Poker better too.

You're playing to your strengths tonight. Preppy and bored is the game. You're dressed to match, but you wear the look with disdain. Khakis are slightly baggy. White Oxford shirt with a preppy schoolboy vest over it. Shirt untucked and creeping below the base of the vest. A bit unkempt. Shades in your hair. Real watch. Lots of accessories. Expensive sneakers. Shit, what you're wearing is worth more than the piece of shit three-series that half these fucks drive. The goal is simple. Demonstrate wealth without talking about it. No talking about it. At all.

Most guys in finance work the career angle. Some brag about deals they've been on or the bank for which they work. They talk money. It's what they know. It obviously works pretty well as they all still do it. Not your style though. It's not even that the girls are all gold diggers at these places. For them, it's just a checklist. Is he successful? Check.

Preppy and bored isn't particularly subtle. Be interesting and mysterious. Use said boredom as an excuse 'to get out of here.' Demonstrate wealth to make the 'out of here' place intriguing. The club scene isn't really your strong point. Get out as quickly as possible.

Part of the problem is the boredom is genuine. No matter how cute a girl is, standing around downing severely overpriced, generic, drinks for hours while you holler in each other's ears trying to communicate over the music blows. You're not trying to one night these girls anyways. Not your style. Not that you haven't. Or that you wouldn't if it was the right girl. You're looking for numbers. Not STDs or alimony.

Two girls seated at a table nearest the entrance immediately notice you as you exit the foyer with the hostess and enter the open area of the club. Blond and brunette. Late twenties. At best. Cute-ish but too old. Their noticing of you isn't anything too special. They took that table to scout the door. Their game is clearly to eyefuck the shit out of any guy that isn't a total bust and then pray for the best.

Your solution to unwanted attention is simple. Pretend they don't exist. You stare blankly through the two and continue further inside.

Your two friends from the cab have caught up to the rest of your crew who apparently have been here for an hour already. They came here at fucking 9pm? Sadness. You'd rather strike out by yourself looking for prey than stand around like a doofus with your boys so you opt out of the brodown and move towards the other bar.

The place is already pretty asses to elbows. There are girls, but none obviously, immediately approachable. You finally spot two girls of interest waiting on drinks at the upper bar. Both blond. Petite. Fake tans. Cute enough.

There are a few guys to their right impatiently trying to get the attention of a bartender, but none of them are working the girls. The girls aren't exactly your type, but still, in most scenes there would be guys permanently glued to such girls.

You walk up to the bar next to the two and a bartender immediately turns to take your order snubbing the guys already there. Chumps.

Bartender is late twenties. Asian. Spiked hair. "Watcha havin' bro?"

"Sam Adams."

You decline starting up a tab saying your friends have one running on the lower bar. Which is true but really you only ordered a beer because you knew you could tip generously on it and that only plays with cash. Eight on twelve looks better than five on fifteen. Besides, he's about to earn it for you.

"Your change man," as you start to turn away from the bar. You haven't looked at all at the two girls. You were just here to grab a beer.

"Nah, we're good. But hey, what's with the dress code?"

"On us?" All the staff in the place are seriously overdressed. Formalwear on everyone. "I dunno. Rules are rules."

You turn to the girls. "What do you think?"

** TO BE CONTINUED **

(A diversion from Poker Noirs)