I almost went disguised as Steeply, well Steeply’s current persona; (as he’s had many) on a lark, but then thought better of it. For one, I didn’t want to freak Marathe out, make him think he was having a flashback or whatever…and of course, given my former work for USS infiltrating the AFR, there was no way I could go as ‘myself’ either; that was out of the question; or as the Les Québécoises et les québécois would say; totalement déraisonnable.
Chances are Marathe was so desperate to save his poor sick wife that he wouldn’t reveal my true identity to anyone anyway, but even with my research and planning tenacity I couldn’t possibly cover every variable (and there were probably, no matter how meticulous I was, variables that I didn’t consider that might have a great affect on the outcome as well) there was to consider…and who knew if Marathe would have someone tailing him, whether of his own volition or no.
The disguise I decided on was relatively simple; I bleached my hair blonde, wore dark, John Lennon type, round sunglasses, a fake beard and mustache. I also put on one of those knitted hippy-type hoodies that was about ten sizes too big for me, some huge brand new pants, with patches all over them; the type that have been a status symbol of the have it all yuppy who wants to portray the persona of the desolate and down and out hippy the world over. And then, just for fun, stuffed a bunch of pillows under my over-sized clothes. I looked in the mirror and saw the hippest fat man who’d ever lived.
And so I showed up early to case the joint, like any good investigator would and should. I located the exits, entrances and restrooms and got a rough idea of the layout of where everything else was; the bars, the dance floors, lounge areas, vantage points, etc.
There were three floors; each with a theme that was completely different but still somehow managed to complement the other two. The lights were hypnotic and pulsing throughout and the music was thumping, pulling and stretching my eardrums with every beat. I didn’t quite understand why anyone would need drugs in a place like this. The atmosphere already made me feel like I was on some seriously heavy hallucinogens, but that also may have been the ultra-high quality hybrid Bob Hope I had used, in an attempt to make my fat, stoned out hippy disguise as authentic as possible, before coming to the club. But the Hope certainly wasn’t the only reason I was feeling like I was, the club itself was at least half of it, if not more.
I was meeting Marathe on the first floor, so figured out the best vantage points of the second and third floors to the first floor and decided to meet Remy at one of the many sub-bars that were not in view of the other floors' look out posts.
There were couples writhing on all the dance floors, some standing, some laying, some one on one, some in groups. All were looking very salacious and extremely happy. It was kind of neat that other humans were the objects of their overwhelming affection as I’ve noticed, in observing those under the influence of MDMA didn’t have really any powers to delineate or put more import in one type of love over another.
Every 20 feet or so, someone in dark glasses and an indistinct face even I’d have trouble picking out of a lineup solicited me; wanted to sell me MDMA in some form or another. I may have even been tempted if it wasn’t for the Hope but I had to keep my wits about me so I declined. I had tried it once in its purest form, years ago and found the experience pleasant; kind of like a cross between amphetamines and lysergic acid diethylamide but not as intense as either on its own.
There were two reasons really, why I never tried it again. One was the rumor that studies had shown that MDMA caused such a release and over-manufacture of endorphins and other pleasure causing substances in the brain that after the exstacy ‘buzz’ wore off there was a such void of those chemicals, a depletion so complete that it could take months for the brain to start producing those chemicals at normal levels again that it was like having pockets of emptiness everywhere in the mind that might give a person solace when situations are encountered that really try a person’s reason for existence; and therefore possibly no respite, no alleviation in the face of the inevitability of mortality. Which of course; leads to depression or even greater depression than one had faced before taking the the exstacy if they had it before. That wasn’t the case for me but as I stated; I had only tried it once and thank goodness it was that way, for me, with any harder substance than the Hope too. And the Hope, thanks be to goodness, probably had more benefits when it came to mental and physical health than any other substance known to man. Despite what the phamacuetical industry or those in government with sociopathic tendencies and a penchant for rallying against change, whether positive or negative, whatever it may be, wanted us to believe. The second reason was that I was too old to do a substance like MDMA recreationally. It was all about therapy and epiphanies for me; trying to somehow get past the ‘reality’ filters society, my own eyes and my brain’s endless wont for fitting everything in nice neat patterns even when and where there was none to be, wanted me to see.
The ambience of the place was soothing and inviting and kind but had I been on some MDMA induced journey or tangent I would have found everything distracting, not at all amicable to real discovery or learning; and so diametrically opposed to the reason to live life for me.
When I made my way back to the first-floor bar and ordered a drink, I took a sip and turned around. To my amazement, I saw Remy in his wheelchair in complete command in the middle of the dance floor. Even though I had seen it before, I still could barely believe what control Marathe had of the wheelchair. He was like some expert X Games participant on a BMX bike instead of a disabled person stuck in a chair for life. He spun in place so fast, he was basically a blur, he bunny hopped the wheelchair and did wheelies, he even did some kind of crazy break dance type move, flipping his wheelchair above him as he did hand stands and then landing squarely on his wheels again. Soon he was out of view, surround by a circle of pining onlookers cheering him on, laughing and clapping.
The music stopped and I finished my drink. The crowd around Remy cheered and whistled and made an opening through which he appeared and rolled off the dancefloor toward the bar I was at and pulled up right next to me.
Sweat glistened on his face but his pespiration wasn’t at all hurried. ‘That was amazing,’ I said to him. ‘Let me buy you a drink.’
‘Sure,’ Marathe said. ‘I’ll take a Stoli-Gold and pineapple, please.’ The barista with the huge, hypnotizing jugs overheard and began mixing the drink. ‘Do I know you,' he asked, looking at me.
‘No Remy, you don’t know me but you know who I am.’
‘Cryptic, but I’ll take the drink anyway. I haven’t got so crazy on the dance floor in years and I’m really very thirsty.’
Marathe grabbed the ice cold drink in front of him and brought it to his lips. When he set it down again the glass was half empty and I was gone. I had placed the parcel, wrapped in indistinct brown paper in his lap when he was mid sip and quickly left before he was finished.
‘You look almost familiar,’ Remy said and looked over at no one. ‘Huh?’ Looking down, he saw the package and it dawned on him that he had just met the person he came to the club to meet. He quickly placed the tape under his unfeeling left thigh and blanket. He looked up and around and saw nothing suspicious and smiled the first genuine smile he had smiled in years.
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