“I bet those two can help.” Roberto pointed down the street. Two women were approaching. They looked like jeans and T-shirt software architects who had gotten dressed up for a night out and had a few drinks on their way over. They stopped in front of the main entrance while one of them looked something up on her phone. Roberto and I wandered over.
“Going to Molly’s?” I asked.
“Yeah. Just need to find the code,” said the taller one, not looking up.
“Hi,” said the shorter, drunker one, peeking around her friend. She wore what I thought might be a Doctor Who cosplay outfit—suspenders with culottes, rainbow shirt, and a long coat.
“Hello!” Roberto answered. “I want to dance with you. You look like fun.”
“Found it!” Exclaimed the taller one who, in fact, looked much more like Doctor Who than her companion but wore a more traditional burner outfit in the steampunk genre that included leather pants and World War One pilot goggles. She typed a five digit code on the keypad by the door while I reflexively memorized it.
We rode up to the sixth floor together in a rattletrap elevator, then climbed a set of dank stairs to the roof where we found a crowd already assembled, lounging on chaises that looked like they were made out of reclaimed pallet wood, milling around the edges, and dancing in twos or threes to the steady thump of bass heavy EDM coming from an open, roll up metal door leading into the penthouse. As we moved into the mix, I realized that many of the partiers looked older, like they might have been into the scene all the way back at the beginning in the early to mid-nineties. There were plenty of younger people though, like the two we had entered with, sprinkled into the mix amongst the grizzled OG burners. Nearly everyone was in glorious regalia. There were fake fur leg warmers, dresses made of silver metallic fabrics shimmering like fish scales, leather vests weathered by alkali dust, top hats, Edwardian trench coats fitted at the waist and flaring out below, chainmail bikinis, neon colored booty shorts, and, as Ashna had mentioned, plenty of missing sleeves. I admired their devotion to creative self-expression. Strolling through the crowd toward the open door, I saw lots of dilated pupils and blissed out faces shiny with perspiration.
“OMFG Justin,” Roberto said into my ear, clutching my arm. “I feel like I just stepped back in time to two thousand two. I’m sure I went to this exact same party my first year in art school.”
“Yeah, I went to this party about twenty times my first year. We probably went together. These might even be the same people.”
“I’m glad they found something that works for them.”
Inside, the penthouse was one huge, open space—hardwood floor, stained and scuffed by years of parties, eighteen foot ceiling at the center with exposed girders and insulation, unpainted cinder block walls, alternating with giant, wood framed windows that looked out over the rooftops of SOMA to the south and the downtown skyline to the north. A DJ was set up in one corner on what looked like a permanent platform. The music, crisp and chest thumping, came from speakers mounted near the roof throughout the space. A thick crowd surrounded the platform, leaping, cavorting, and spinning in trance like movements. A kitchen took up the opposite corner with stainless counters, huge refrigerator, and butcher block island. To the left of the roll up door was a chill out area with a massive super shag carpet and innumerable pillows and bean bags scattered around for lounging. To the right stood a cube structure on hefty casters made of clear pine and plywood, maybe ten feet by ten feet, fully enclosed, with an open door through which I could see soft light and white linens.
“I’m going to go dance,” Roberto said.
“Okay, I’m going to wander for a while,” I replied, moving off toward the cube. I paused outside, curious. The interior seemed quiet and serene in contrast to the chaos of the party.
“That’s Molly’s mobile bedroom pod,” a voice behind me said, close to my ear. I turned to face the speaker. It was the tall woman who had gotten us into the building. “Completely soundproof. You can go in there and close the door and you won’t hear the music at all. You’ve never been here before, have you?”
“No. First time. What’s that?” I asked, pointing to an enclosed loft above the DJ stage.
“That’s Molly’s sanctuary. He never lets anyone in there. Computers and stuff I think. I’m Anna by the way.” She held her hand out.
“Justin,” I said as she twined her long fingers around mine. “Interesting. Where is he? I’ve never met him.”
“He’s dancing.” She pointed. “The guy with the cowboy shirt and beard.”
He was a big guy—the kind of person who was born to plow fields and hunt wooly mammoths with a stone tipped spear. The sleeves of his cowboy shirt were, indeed, missing. He jumped from one foot to the other, turning in circles like a Russian dancing bear. Nearby, I saw Roberto dancing with the Doctor Who cosplayer. She was a good dancer, animating and doing isolations. Roberto was good too, moving his lanky frame around in sinuous waves.
“Do you think he keeps the sleeves? After he rips them off?”
“What?” The music had gotten louder all of a sudden, killing any possibility of communication.
“Going outside,” I yelled, pointing toward the door. Anna nodded, mouthed something that looked like ‘see you later’ and turned away, headed for the dance floor.
Fog rolled in, cold and damp. The party had mostly moved inside. A few stragglers were leaning on the parapet that wrapped around the edge of the roof, smoking or just staring at the city lights. The outside area took up about a third of the roof with the penthouse covering the other two thirds except for a narrow walkway on both
