Simon, Simon, Stanton & Souk: A Tale Of a New York Monday

It was a day of S inspired outings.

By Marcus Bird

I’m sitting in a theater in pin drop silence. In front of me, images of Simon Pegg’s soon to be released film Hector and The Search For Happiness, plays on screen to the rapt attention of the audience. Somewhere in the building, Simon Pegg himself, star of such films as Hot Fuzz and Shaun Of The Dead will make an appearance, but i’m lost. I’m lost in emotions because the film speaks about a man so bored with his day to day routine he takes a sojourn around the world, inevitably facing situations that bring out his deepest, darkest fears. In a scene where he is literally bawling his eyes out, I feel my chest tighten and my heart fill with emotion. I was reminded of a time in Tokyo, when walking through Shibuya, despite being surrounded by literally thousands of people, I felt completely and utterly alone. That was a strange night; walking around with a drink in my hand, drifting in no real direction, crunched by a frantic, frightening loneliness. This sensation hit me while I was watching the movie, and I really connected with the film for that reason. But my emotional state simply reflected that it was just one of those days.

Earlier, my day began with a trip to mid town. I’d been working on a mad networking scheme since I’d arrived in New York, trying to use whatever tricks up my sleeve t0 extend my natural swagger to help me meet celebs, make cool public relations moves and somehow, get anyone to notice that i’m an author with three books written and a slew of other relatively cool achievements. But I was genuinely fatigued. The pace of the city had gotten to me, with its revolving nights of dimly lit bars doused with the smell of beer and light perfume, faceless DJs and glass after glass of Indian Pale Ale. Sometimes as a creative, despite making “moves” as some people would say, there are days when one wakes up with blurry-eyes and the world feels foggy. I did a writing internship at Comedy Central some years ago, and decided to use some of that equity to see if I could get my books read by the staff at the Colbert Report. A short, semi-friendly security guard at the front gave me a reasonably courteous hello when I came in, but I was not allowed inside, nor could I speak to anyone directly that could possibly help me. At the time I was too tired to put up a fight, and ended up leaving a few of my books there anyways.

Somewhat deflated, I made the long walk back to my train station, and figured since I was going to 42nd street (for Simon Pegg’s film premiere) that i’d just walk from 52nd down. The walk was slightly rejuvenating, and I ate some passable Chinese food at a place filled with Fedex employees having early lunches. Outside, the streets were relatively mum even though I was near times square. As I ate, I tried to strategize getting a picture with Simon Pegg. But my mind was tired and I decided to just watch the movie.

Now i’m in the theatre after the movie is over, sitting inches away from Simon Pegg and director Peter Chelsom. This is a very cool feeling. Pegg is relaxed and easy going, speaks about being “middle-aged” and has the relaxed swagger of an international celebrity who is known for more being funny than a heartthrob. Earlier in line, a somewhat fidgety man of Asian descent who spoke in a thick foreign accent happily displayed his collection of celebrity photographs. I could see from that time that he’d get his picture no matter what, and from the get go he was sitting in front row. As the talk wound up he immediately darted towards Simon, ignoring the light security. “It’s fine,” Simon said to the people around him as the man said in a very strange voice. “I just want one picture!”

I was standing only feet away, and I could have easily gotten a photo myself, but i didn’t feel it. As the crowd clamoured around and starting chasing him to get pictures, I saw my moment slip away into history. This sort of let me feel like a bit of a failure, particularly because i’d planned at least two weeks before to see the film. I ended up watching Lucy afterward and getting solidly recharged. Nicole, a girl i’d met on a film shoot a week or so before sent me a message as I was leaving the theater. It was about an art exhibit by a fellow called Peace Simon, somewhere in Brooklyn. I said why not.

One of the things I find most interesting about New York is the variety of people you can meet in a ridiculously short period of time. Idly, I decided to be an extra in a short film and got paired up with Nicole when we were to be pretending to sit and eat in an upscale restaurant scene. During this time, we chatted about our non-existent acting careers among other things. “I get to brag about working on Wall Street,” she mentioned with a sly smile, “Because my office is there.” With her red hair shaved at one side, intermittent desires to paint and “Memphis Storm”, a fake author name I gave her, I liked her energy immediately.

As I got off the train in Brooklyn, I spent twenty minutes trying to find the place, which was in an apartment building that did NOT have the building number written on it. “I love the matching colours,” is the first thing I say to Nicole after seeing her outfit. She is wearing a whitewashed jeans jacket with with patches of red and white fabric sewn in and matching pants. There are assorted drinks and some finger food on the table, and a young man playing violin in the background, seemingly lost in his own world. There are also a few women a little out of place for the setting; in high heels and nice dresses. I chat with Nicole for a while about nothing in particular, with her commenting on my scarf that’s a tie, and me saying something about taking pictures with her on Instagram. All the while, a young man in a red shirt keeps asking me to take pictures and though i’m still a little tired, I take them anyway. It is when we are leaving that I realize that he is the artist, Peace Simon. So far wherever I’ve traveled to with my camera, I become the official camera man of the evening. This will happen three times tonight.

Nicole introduces me to her friend J, who she emphasizes is “crazy, but in a good way,” and I admire her backpack, which is shiny gold. I’m roaming around with the camera, when a hand touches my shoulder. “We are going to Stanton Social after this, you should come,” Simon says in a light French accent. Again, I say why not.

I travel with the group up the same road and towards the train station feeling the New York energy start to build in my system again. Here I am, walking down dirty steps with the roar of trains from an overhead track blasting in my ears, heading to a destination with seven people I just met. As we wait by the platform, I size up the group. Simon has a gregarious energy and an arresting smile. He brilliantly demonstrates the difference between Jamaicans and Haitians. “Haitians dance like this,” he says, moving his hips in a certain fashion. “Jamaicans do this!” I laugh as he does a dated dance, called the ‘Willie Bounce’.

J tells me that she likes the new craze of men wearing over-sized shirts and skinny jeans, and without any reservation hints that my body type would fit that style excellently, but me, half-tired and ready for alcohol, didn’t know how to respond.

Despite being to New York numerous times and being a self-dubbed “Lower East Side Rat”, i’d never been to Stanton Social before. Tonight, walking with Simon and his crew, we are immediately waved in without our IDs being checked and ushered into V.I.P. “It’s open bar until twelve,” Simon’s friend says to me. I think about the words open bar for a second, then remember that in Jamaica “drinks inclusive” is the same as “open bar”. I rejoice quietly, because drinks in New York are effing expensive. I hit the bar and get two Red Bull vodkas and go back to our table. In V.I.P I meet some interesting characters, including a few musicians and fashionistas, one of whom said something about being signed to Badboy. I also became the official camera man again, with people constantly tapping me to ask for pictures with no need to know where they were going or even if I had a website. I didn’t care. My mood from earlier in the day was being converted into something else. The music wasn’t bad, and who doesn’t like being in V.I.P?

Drinks flowed like water and soon people were jumping on couches and making a lot of noise. As I grabbed my fourth or fifth drink, I realized that at the bar I was smiling for no reason.

“We are going to Le Souk,” Simon says.

I trail in a cab behind the group and just like before, get waved in with no ID and check into the club, which is packed beyond belief. This time with the camera I begin to gain godlike powers as everyone smiles at me and happily poses for pictures.

The night is a rage of alcohol and hype folks, partying and screaming ad naseam. I watch a twerk competition take place, get a drink from Simon who is ensconsed somewhere with J behind a large table packed with hookahs, and eventually drift into the street, where I walk home, because I know where I am. The morning light greets my inebriated steps and I say, “Yes, i’m in New York again.”