Let the Bowies Hit the Floor
I didn't know buildings like this still existed. They do: at the end of avenues, tucked into trees, long-outdated industrial structures with old angles and two-story roofs—ample space now used for civilian, artistic means. There must be a few hundred people at this party. Several are dressed as different incarnations of David Bowie. Ascending the rustic stairs I am passed by a sleeping girl, carried down by two friends. At the top is a long rectangular room with no walls or floor, only bodies. It is tedious trying to sift through the dancing crowd.
On the other side of the room there is a ledge and a large window to crawl out of. The roof is covered with a thick moss and feels old and wise. The drop to the bushes below must be 25 or 30 feet. I am told before I can ask, "Someone fell off earlier tonight." A hell of a fall. There is a ladder to a higher section of roof; the view of downtown and the water is unparalleled. The wind chill is unbearable.
Back inside, the party is collapsing on itself. It's late, and as soon as the music stops, people start yelling. Swimming toward the exit, a pile of bodies crashes to the floor in front of me. There is no room to move. The mood is anxious and exhilarated, volatile. After escaping, we all agree this is one of the wildest parties any of us have ever beheld.
The Stranger wants to come inside your house. Chitchat, maybe have some drinks, hold hands for a bit. Spend some quality time with the kids. E-mail the date, place, time, and party details to email@example.com. It can feel great.