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A doorman with a square face and a wildman’s beard wearing a black bowler hat motioned for you. As soon as you stepped over the threshold he locked the door behind you. With a rough large hand, he returned you the card and nudged his head; he knew well why you were here. Within a few steps through a dimly lit entranceway, he stopped in front of a narrow wooden staircase with thin straight rails. With one hand he grabbed the first step and pulled it from the ground and above himself, revealing a set of steps downwards. The things a regular fellow had to go through just to get a drink … you risked a bit more, but you always had it on hand. You had the fruit of your labour, as Founding Fathers would say.
“If you can’t lift it, knock, and I will,” he said with a gruff voice and insulting instance.
You didn't take the man’s insult to the heart; the stairs looked heavy, how was a drunk man supposed to do what he did? You climbed down the steps as another flight of them fell behind you. Sconces of yellow light accompanied your short descent until you could hear sputtering Jazz, smell the miasma of alcohol and, as you entered the large ex-cellar, see a brown wooden ceiling painted in char of the cigarette smoke.
Momentary laughter, singing and yelling drowned the sound of the phonograph that stood in the corner of the expansive room. Painted in dark green the walls were stencilled with golden and black geometric shapes: squares and triangles. They lead to a piece, covering the entire wall, of a man and a woman dancing on each side of the symmetric hourglass as tall as each of them.
It was busy. Those yet drunk stood in front of a bulky bar with glasses hanging above and bottles, very few bottles, displayed proudly on the shelves recessed into the wall. Those tipsy sat on chairs behind coffee tables or less comfortable stools behind smaller round tables, a greenish tablecloth, a tall glass, and an ashtray present on each. Those fried were swaying their arms and trotting like foxes on the space near the drawing of the hourglass left furnitureless for their unbounded dances. Lastly, you noticed, that those who were blacked out or needed a minute of rest, were provided such: several men and women slept, and nothing more, on a large pile of cushions and pillows.
The friend of the man who gave you the card finished his dance. He lifted his hat and scrubbed sweat above his brows. Gasping for air with a large grin, he noticed you. He apologised to the woman next to him and, pushing through the crowd of at least twenty people, he came to you. The crowd paused to catch their breath. The moment the next song started, they continued their dancing.
“Hey there,” the man with a pencil moustache said with a smirk. He took out a white stick of chewing gum and offered it to you, “You want some?”
