The only bathroom at Industry Bar is a cramped single stall, no good place to do coke, but I rush in and lock the door anyway, a flock of drag queens trailing dangerously behind me like vultures awaiting the sight of blood. Safe inside, I press my temple against the cold tile. Close my eyes, count to five. Dinner reservations. The Flintstones. Breathing out, I move over to the sink, running cold water over my hands when someone bangs on the door and I think Iām crying out a weak āOccupadoā. I gaze at my reflection, soothed somewhat by my still-perfect hair, trying on a nervous smile, when I see it ā on the wall behind me, scrawled in red sharpie, letters reversed ā FINANCE BROSā¦ =... CHUDā¦
Like a flashcut in a horror movie, I burst out of the restroom, pushing my way past the line of men all dressed in terrifying, mesh tank tops, toppling over martini glasses as some of the smaller ones cuss me out but I donāt stop, donāt chance a breath until Iām free from the jungle of feather boas and out on the sidewalk. Iām shedding my jacket on the curb. No buskers, no cabs, only a lone Grubhub delivery bot stuck uselessly between a street lamp and garbage bag. It inches forward, then back, then forward again, and I watch with careful anticipation. Itās six wheels whir against the concrete. Stuffing a scrap of metal beneath my arm discarded on the street, the carnage of an unseen car crash, I stalk soundlessly over to the delivery bot, illuminated white in the streetlampās glare.
I tug it from behind for a moment, freeing one wheel from the trash bag now leaking onto the sidewalk as a group of club-goers pass by, nodding approvingly at my selfless deed and I smile shyly until they descend back into shadow. The delivery bot is back on track now and little clicking noises emanate from its plastic body as it gets its bearings like an animal released from a trap. Slowly, I slip the scrap of metal into my hand and raise it over my head like a mad woodsman, shadow stretching below. The botās wheels rotate into place. Rolls forward. In one swift motion, I bring the bar down, hard, on the delivery botās back, watching the plastic dent, then bringing it up, then down again, over and over until the cabin cracks and Chinese takeout sprays th sidewalk. An arch of red-orange sweet & sour sauce like blood. I continue bludgeoning the bot, garlic green beans and shards of plastic raining down into the gutter, wheels rolling down the drain, and once Iām sure its really dead (and not faking it) I grab a handful of soy sauce packets, and run off down the street, tearing and sucking them into my mouth like a thirsty man in the desert.
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