IN THE CORNER booth of Linda’s Tavern at closing time, the bitter end of my warm beer gives me a second wind. But what can I do, where can I go, with this jolt of alcohol- induced energy at 2 a.m.? An after-hours club for techno-heads? No thanks. A smoky diner full of sloppy drunks and sloppier omelets? I’d rather pump iron—actually, wait! That’s it. The way I’m feeling, I really would rather pump iron.
Entering 24-Hour Fitness (1827 Yale Ave., 206-624-0651, and other locations), I am nearly blinded by the glare of bright lights that illuminate problem areas and encourage all-night treadmillers to press on in the dark early morning hours. I wait patiently as the receptionist takes personal phone calls and happily waves on the lucky ones with membership cards. Finally, she makes unwilling eye contact and asks me what I want. I tell her that I want to tour the place, and hopefully become a member so that I can blow off steam in the middle of the night. After she gets done gawking at me like I’m crazy, she says that I cannot take a tour and she cannot tell me how much a membership is. I have to go through their corporate office to get this information, she says, which leaves me wondering why there is a need for her employment. My hopes for an exercise high dissipate. She is a dream crusher. Leaving the building, I almost trip over a stand-up sign that proclaims: “24-Hour Fitness, membership—$19.99.”
Those last two Bud Lights are catching up with my impatient bladder. I scurry along Broadway, and happen upon the always-open, automatic self-cleaning public toilet (Broadway Avenue and East Howell Street). There is hope for my bladder . . . but not for long. There’s a line, and it’s not a line I feel comfortable joining. A girl approaches at random. She tells me she’s been waiting almost 20 minutes to use this toilet, implying that I’m going to steal her spot in line. Paranoid? Being new to this particular scene, I ask her what someone would be doing around here at almost 3 a.m. I get a chilling glare for my trouble, which gives me a few ideas about what her answer might be—if she were to give one. Hey, Hillers—what goes on during those lost 20 minutes on that shiny, spiffy counter? And just how long does it take to snort coke?
The firm, steady pressure on my bladder is unrelenting. It’s now 3:30 a.m. Affecting the poise of someone who knows exactly what she’s doing, I pass through the produce section toward a drug-free rest room at the 24-hour QFC (1401 Broadway Ave., 206-860-3818, and other locations, www.qfconline.com). It’s dark. The floor is cluttered with boxes, but it’s no drug dive. Relieved at last, I make my way back through the heavy, black plastic swinging doors. The aisles are eerily silent. I saunter through the store, searching for an unsuspecting late-nighter to observe. I find him: an honest-to-God, women’s-jeans-wearing scenester. He’s sweating like a pig as he reaches for the cheapest box of condoms. As he extends his bony arm, his long black bangs fall across his face in a preplanned fashion. He spots me. We are the only two people in the store. Time to jet.
What would Freud say about my grocery store encounter and my next stop, Déjà Vu Showgirls Adult Megastore (1510 First Ave., 206-342-9160)? Plenty, I’m sure. Immediately inside the door, I feel umpteen sets of eyes drilling a hole in my body. First observation: all men. Surprise, surprise. I make conversation with the haggard employee who tells me that a lot of crackheads come in at this time. Lucky me.
Fat. Thin. Long. Short. Red. Purple. Yellow. Pulsating. Vibrating. Tingling. Hard-core. Anal punisher. Fetish. I can’t rest my eyes on just one tantalizing tool. I surmise why my fellow shoppers skipped the bar scene: same choices, no fight. I can feel sleaziness seeping in through my pores; I have to escape. Just before my exit, however, I am approached. I’d make an excellent candidate for Amateur Night, I’m told. I invoke my maddest mad dash.
I HAVE GIVEN UP. My quest for an after-hours hangout outside the biscuits-and-gravy and bump-and-grind (the bump-and-grind of a dance floor, that is) arenas is over. Turns out a drunken stupor is just not fun without a giant Oreo shake and a basket of seasoned fries. Time to go home. It’s 4:51 a.m. CSI: Miami is about to start. Hurry.
