Too Much Contact, No More Feeling (Alex)

September 1989

He saunters into Manhattan Project at about quarter to midnight, just ahead of the crowds spilling out of the bars across the river. As he approaches his usual table, a gaggle of suspiciously young-looking girls in identical Goth-face makeup shriek "Alex!" He smirks in greeting, tossing his creaking-new black leather jacket over the back of the booth before sliding in next to... Annabelle? Anaconda? Whatever the hell her name is. The waitress deposits a snakebite and black in front of him moments later, and he gives her a more sincerely appreciative smile. It's been a long week - since Parliament has been in session, he's actually been expected to do some *work* at the office, which has been seriously eating into his sleep time as a result. He might actually go home before Manhattan closes tonight.

In the meantime though, the DJ's just put on The Sisters, and the entire bar surges towards the dancefloor like an oilslick wave. The bass thunders through the floor, jacked up almost to the point of overloading the speakers, but not quite. Alex loses the tie and takes a drag off Julia's (Jocasta?) clove cigarette, letting the alcohol and the noise numb his senses.

Although maybe that's not quite what he's looking for tonight.

He shakes his head angrily and shrugs off a black-taloned hand, heading for the bathroom. A thin boy with a shock of lime-green hair is bent over the counter, inhaling lines. He notices Alex watching.

"Want some?"

Alex thinks about it, his mind shying away from the image of his mother with bloodshot eyes and a smear of white under her nose.

"How much?"

"Ten a line?"

"Is it good shit?"

The kid laughs shakily.

"Yeah, I'd say so."

"Okay."

He hands over a twenty, then rolls up another as the kid arranges two lines on the counter with practiced ease despite the trembling in his hands.

* * * * * * * *

Five minutes later Alex is back on the dancefloor, feeling like God almighty. Instead of feeling numb, his senses are heightened to an almost painful degree. Colours are brighter, shadows are darker, and even with feedback and ambient noise, he can hear each note in the harsh industrial track and appreciate the way they fail to harmonize. It's almost too much - he retreats to the table and impresses the girls with tales of Montreal and hobnobbing with foreign diplomats. It's mostly complete bullshit, of course, but he's always had a talent for bullshit.

* * * * * * * *

The DJ's just put on the new Nine Inch Nails track when there's a buzz of conversation audible even over the wash of bass. Through the darkened (and rather grubby) front window he can see the outline of a white stretch limousine. Then the door opens and a guy in a long, white leather coat comes sweeping in like he owns the place, followed by an entourage of about seven or eight people, all of whom are dressed in such a way that makes everyone else in the club look like preschool kids playing dress-up.

"Who the fuck is that?"

He thought he'd said it to himself, but Cleo (Christine?) says, "That's Omar. Haven't you ever seen him before? They go to a different bar every night - I don't know what he does for a living, but he must be super rich..."

Alex's sense of tact disappeared after the third snakebite. He blurts out, "But he's so old - he must be at least forty!"

... just as the song fades and there's a sudden inconvenient lull in the conversation. Omar looks over sharply, takes in his rumpled work clothes and smudged eyeliner, and smiles beatifically at him. Feeling like a complete asshole now, Alex quickly knocks back the rest of his drink and lurches unsteadily to his feet. A hand rests lightly on his forearm, holding him steady. One of the girls from Omar's crew is standing there with a flute glass full of something milky green.

"Mr. Ravenhurst wishes to know if you would care to join him at his table."