Trapped In The Booth
Beyoncé and the Magical Mushroom Ride
One night I DJ’ed on drugs, my heart was broken, and Bey saved my life
Disclaimer: This is a semi-fictionalized version of my all-too-real experiences working as a DJ in New York City. Most of the names of venues, organizations or people mentioned herein have been changed or, in some instances, totally pulled out of my ass, so stop even trying to guess, cool? Cool.
It was a late Friday set in the VIP room of a renowned East Village venue near 14th Street. I was co-headlining that night with a voluptuous female knob-turner, DJ Nolita, curiously christened as she was from Euclid, Ohio and resided in Washington Heights. But nightlife is no place for sense.
Nolita, a beautiful, closeted former Playboy Bunny, was infamous for her short-lived relationships with C-list rappers, the kind who get a feature on an A$AP mixtape and promptly evaporate. She also had a well-worn appetite for both mid-priced weave and any drugs she could get her mitts on: poppers, molly, coke, K, sometimes all at once.
In fact, Nolita often DJ’ed on a whole cocktail of shit. It was almost impressive. “I DJ better when I’m fucked up. You should try it!” She’d suggest with masked condescension. Not I. One hit of weed before a set and I’d be hiding under the turntables, sending emergency meltdown texts to my life coach.
No and I had first met earlier that year after getting booked together for what was the third gig ever for each of us, a $100-a-piece afterwork slot at a cheesy midtown bar. We bonded instantly over the abject terror of striking out on this unlikely career path and during the next year, we became fast friends.
We even started getting booked as an unlikely DJing duo: the quirky gay hipster in Carhartt overalls and the bombshell karaoke Kardashian, the Brigitte Nielsen and Flavor Flav of DJing.
On this particular night, though, things were tense between Nolita and I as we arrived at the VIP room, threw our records on the turntables and listened to the manager enthuse, “Tracy Morgan is rolling through with his crew later tonight!”
No and I had just entered a bit of love triangle. The guy in question — Kevin, an earnest, young-Paul Rudd-ish bro whom I’d met through high school buddies — claimed to be straight (;-)). I’d fallen hard for him anyway, knowing full well that catching feelings for a straight guy was dumber than Renee Zellweger’s choice in plastic surgeon.
Moreover, I’d confided in No about my feelings for Kevin over the past couple months, venting while we shared the decks at glossy magazine events or went out for boozy brunches in the East Village on Sundays. I’d even casually taken both of them them to see a Ghostface Killah show a few weeks back.
Initially, introducing Kevin and No felt safe — I knew No’s criterium for boyfriends was the promise of BET Awards access. Kevin, meanwhile, was struggling to launch his own app and was totally broke.
But as we shared a cab to our gig together that night, No dropped the bomb. “Just to be honest, I think I might even have feelings for him,” she announced, twisting her fake locks around her index finger. I almost blew chunks all over her sequined BeBe mini-dress but stopped myself, knowing that Kevin would be showing up later to see us spin. If I couldn’t entice him to “experiment” before, I figured puke mouth certainly wasn’t going to help things.
“Don’t worry,” No informed me right before scratching in the first song of her set, Theophilus London’s “Why Even Try.” “Nothing is gonna happen. Can we just forget about it? Forget I said anything.”
“Sure, whatever,” I replied, leaning against the side wall of the booth and attempting to use The Power of Now to undo the formidable knot in my stomach.
“And besides,” No continued with a gleam in her eyes, shimmying to adjust her tight dress, “I brought us a little treat.”
“Oh yea?” I responded switching to The Secret and envisioning myself with wings, soaring out of this conversation. The Secret, as it turns out, is bullshit.
“Yea,” No answered, “check it out!”
I looked up just in time to watch a plastic baggie filled with mushrooms unravel from her hot pink-manicured hand.
I shot her a shady “bitch, please” head tilt.
“Come on, ya little pussy!” No barked back, “You never have any fun. Lighten the fuck up! It’s just DJing! You’re not Beyoncé, for fuck’s sake.” Ouch!
“Nah, I’m good,” I answered.
“Fine. All done!” she informed me with a devilish grin, swallowing some of her stash. “You’re insane,” I answered. “Do you feel anything yet?”
“No not yet,” she answered before turning to mix in her next song, Pharrell’s “Frontin’.” I spent the next 30 minutes avoiding No’s set by stealthily drafting and then deleting the sadsack sub-tweet, “Jolene, Jolene…,” over and over again on my phone.
“Oh! Kevin!” She finally blurted out, after an eternity of awkward silence.
I spun around to see him at standing at the entrance of the booth, dashing in a perfectly unknowing way, with his thick wavy black hair and fitted leather jacket. “Hi,” I greeted him sheepishly as he stepped inside our Booth of Buried Feelings. “Hey Louie!” he answered with a big friendly hug.
“I just took mushrooms!” No blurted out, turning from the decks only momentarily, “and they’re just starting to kick iiiiiin wwwwoooooooooooooossssshhhh!!!!!!”
“Oh, good,” I turned to Kevin, attempting to share an eye-roll.
As her trip escalated, No’s set unraveled. I knew things had gone pear-shaped when she gracelessly smashed Shaggy’s “It Wasn’t Me” into a languid Lana Del Rey tune, then a TNGHT B-side, pounded the airhorn and moaned, “Guys, my computer looks like Tetris. See!!!” She reached over to her baggie of mushrooms and shoved a handful at Kevin. “Have some, Kevin, cuz Louie’s thinks he’s Beyoncé and he’s no fucking fun!”
“I think I should take over right about now,” I interjected, stepping up to the turntables and pushing No aside as confounded club-goers looked for their bags and the exit.
“Suit yourself!” No replied, tossing her headphones at me and spinning around. “OH MY GOD TRACY MORGAN YOU’RE SEXY!!!” she burst out laughing at Tracy who’d just taken his place at the banquet right next to the booth. Tracy waved at us. “This club is 30 Rock! Where’s Kenneth? Where’s Liz Lemon!?” No yelped, before grabbing Kevin’s hand and stomping into the crowd.
Just as the peeved club manager signaled me with the dreaded “turn-up” arms from across the room, I scratched in Icona Pop’s “I Love It” to get everything back under control. I was so intent on saving our gig, in fact, that I was caught fully off guard by the time I looked up to dab my brow an hour later and saw my greatest fear realized: Robyn’s “Dancing On My Own” transpiring IRL. There, in a corner booth, were No and Kevin devouring each other’s faces as I stood powerless, swaying to “Pony.”
Hiroshima exploded in my brain. I froze. Sweat poured down my cheeks. My heart raced, especially jarring as I hadn’t worked out in quite some time.
I thought I might start weeping right there and then, but feared making this face in public. In a panic, I felt around the decks desperately for my drink, only to discover it was empty. Despair. I was totally trapped.
My hand did land on something else, though: No’s bag of mushrooms, still plenty full.
What happened next is one of those things that would be inexplicable in any other circumstances, but I learned that night that pain trumps prudence. I reached into the bag, shoved a couple sooty brown caps into my mouth, gagged a little on the putrid taste and made the sign of cross on my chest* (*Note: I am a Jew and had no idea what function this serves).
I glanced at my screen. I played David Banner’s “Like a Pimp.” Everything seemed fine. I did notice the spinning wheels in my computer window looked like tiny circular rainbows. I peered at the raging crowd, grinding on each other. Five minutes passed. Or was it 20? I suddenly realized that I didn’t know what song was playing or when I’d even put it on. Whatever it was sure did feel good, though. This song was yellow, I decided.
To my left, I could hear the amplified sound of every single breath I took. I looked at my hand. It had beautiful blue veins that seemed to pulse in step with the music. Suddenly, I was living inside of Miley Cyrus’ Instagram feed. I convinced myself to pick another song: Flux Pavillion’s “I Can’t Stop,” because it’s also yellow?
Then, out of the corner of my eye I saw them again. No had now climbed on top of Kevin and they were making out voraciously. Either that, or she’d turned into Jaws and was eating him whole. I could almost swear No turned to look back at me with a grin and a comic book villain-cackle.
My mind categorized this moment as “red.” “Oh right. This is actually a nightmare,” I remembered. A tragic Adele song played in my head. Then the fear hit. I hated her (Nolita, not Adele. Love you, Adele). She was the devil, the Death to my Dante, the Jolie to my Aniston, and I needed to purge her from my life immediately. I also needed to text my sister for help but had completely forgotten how to operate my phone.
I looked to my right. The shrooms were now raging and I was heaving heavy breaths. Tracy Morgan was getting a lapdance from who I thought momentarily was Tilda Swinton, but Asian? “Is this club hell?,” the thought entered my mind. “Maybe I’m in hell. No! Maybe it was purgatory and I’d never get out. Fuck, what if this really is purgatory and I’m actually stuck here watching No and Kevin make out for eternity!? Oh my god, what if I’m alone forever? That’d be terrible! What a terrible thing. It can’t be hell if Tilda Swinton is here, right? Fuck, maybe I need to call the police. The thing is, I know I’m supposed to be doing something right now….
….Wait, why is it so quiet all of the sudden?”
Slowly, my pinwheeled eyes focussed in on 200 faces — patrons, the manager, No and Kevin, Tracy Morgan — all staring daggers at me. I stared back, blankly. Slowly, I awakened to a reality worse even than the hellscape in my mind: I’d let a song end without choosing another. “Oh right. That’s what I’m supposed to be doing.”
“Hello Louis. This is Louis,” I heard myself tell myself. “Pick another song right now.” A drop of sweat splashed on the keyboard. I looked at my computer intently but it had no answers. I turned to Asian Tilda Swinton for guidance but she’d disappeared. I did the sign of the cross again. It didn’t help. I knew religion was bullshit.
Then, in what I can only chalk up to a moment of divine intervention, I pulled myself together. No’s earlier declaration, “You’re not Beyoncé” flashed across a screen in my mind. “Well fuck her,” I thought. What the fuck did she know! Maybe I am Beyoncé! I placed my pulsing blue finger on the mouse, dragged it to the search bar and typed: “Survivor Destiny’s Child.” I loaded it in. The synthetic string intro rang out.
“Now that you’re out of my life, I’m so much better!” Beyoncé boomed through the sound system. The crowd went wild. A burst of color exploded before my eyes and Bey’s words rushed all over my body like a giant waterfall of Beyoncé. I was literally bathing inside a gargantuan whirlpool of Beyoncé butter. It was incredible.
I was having revelation upon revelation. “Fuck yea, I am!” my inner monologue answered to each line in “Survivor.” I wasn’t even be mad at this girl, I decided. How could I be? I won’t even diss her on the internet. My momma taught me better than that!
I peaked to my right and Tracy Morgan was dougie-ing, but Asian Tilda Swinton was a brunette Italian now. Maybe it was Mila Kunis? Or Dolly Madison? I decided to ride a pastel-hued wave of early-aughts empowerment anthems — I played Christina Aguilera’s “Fighter” next and then Britney Spears’ “Stronger,” each leading to another glorious epiphany. I was a fighter, baby! I was stronger than yesterday!
I was so elated, in fact, that by the time I noticed that No and Kevin had dipped from the club together, I didn’t even give a shit. I gave overly enthusiastic high-fives to team of wasted Jersey Girls dancing in front of the booth. They snapped a picture of me.
Finally, the club was winding down. I felt warm. I wanted Chex Mix. I knew that what had gone down between Kevin and No was all gonna hit me like a ton of bricks the next morning but at that moment, I was Buzz Aldrin circling the earth. I suddenly remembered how to use my phone, typed “Survivor is the greatest piece of art ever created in history” into a tweet and sent it. 7 RTs, 11 Favs.
The lights flipped on. I ripped my needles and records off the turntables and closed my laptop. I dashed for the exit, ditching my coat, hat and scarf in the process. I burst out into the freezing December night in my t-shirt, my DJ equipment loosely in my arms. I saw my dead Great Aunt Mimi Einsiedler’s face in the window of Smith’s on 3rd Avenue. She seemed happy which I registered as “green.”
Then I saw her. First it was only in silhouette, but the contours of her face slowly came into focus. I froze. Standing on the corner of 13th street, hair blowing in an unseen stage fan, was Beyoncé herself, posing perfectly still. It was almost like seeing a reindeer in leotard. I looked at her. She looked at me. We embraced. “Wow,” I said to Beyoncé, “Is it really you?” “Yes,” said Beyoncé to me, “It is me, Beyoncé. I am real.” A tear rolled down my cheek.
“Wow! Wow. Thank you for everything, B! What are you doing east of 5th Avenue?” I asked, staring up at her with droopy eyes (Beyoncé was 9 feet tall). But before Beyoncé could answer, I continued. “You know what B? I’m not gon give up.”
“You gon work harder, that’s right, baby!” said Beyoncé back to me with a perfectly Beyoncé twinkle and a toss of her hair. “And you’re welcome, King Louie. Never EVER give up!”
Then, Beyoncé shifted her hips back and forth and vanished in a poof of golden smoke. I stood staring at the spot where she’d been. It began to snow. I sprouted wings and flew home.
The next morning, I woke with a smashing headache and cried a little. Then I slapped myself in the face and got over it. That’s what Beyoncé would do. No and Kevin dated briefly but I heard they broke up when she met a newly-signed YMCMB member at a CMJ event. I don’t know for sure because she and I never spoke again after that night. My choice, by the way. Turns out you have to choose your friends wisely in nightlife. That’s just how you survive, keep on survivin’.
airhorn*
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Illustrations by Andrew Krahnke
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