When the sky fell down over Manhattan on the Eleventh of September, we all felt the crunch. Even I did, all the way over on the other side of the country. People weren’t coming out and spending their money like they used to. The crowds of people lining up outside the front door of the club were gone.

Not that I was complaining–I had a good run at the club. Over two years had passed, during which time I made out like a bandit. But I was tired, and I didn’t have any more tricks up my sleeve to conjure up a crowd–especially during those post-9/11 times. There were plenty of younger cats trying to fill my shoes, which was fine by me. It was time for me to kick off my loafers and cool my heels for a while.

About two months after I stopped promoting the place, I stopped by to check in with the owner and have a drink or two with him–we were still pals, after all. The younger promoters were doing what they could to bring in a crowd, and considering what they had to work with, they did a decent job.

Much of their crowd was comprised of my old die-hard regulars–the kind of revelers who came out regardless of rain, sleet, snow or any other unpleasantness Mother Nature could throw their way. They continued to congregate at the club because it was the only place that gave them a sense of belonging. And although the heyday had long passed, they clung on to the ghost of good times gone.

Among the die-hard revelers was a gal I’ll call Tracy. Her man was doing hard time, but she was too young, fine and lonely to wait faithfully for him to get out in five years. I spent a lot of time with Tracy, both on and off the clock. Although the line between us blurred from time to time, my intentions with her were strictly platonic.

I bumped into Tracy on the way out of the club after last call. She was standing underneath the storefront gate, which covered the front entrance of the club when it was closed. During business hours, the gate was held up overhead by two pegs on either side. She flung herself onto me like she hadn’t seen me in ages. I could tell by the clumsiness of her gait and the gin on her breath that she was three sheets to the wind. She looked up at me with those drunken, glassy eyes of hers and said, “I love you.”

It wasn’t the first time I’d heard a profession of love from an inebriated club chick. I’d become accustomed to hearing those words after offering up my shoulder and listening to a gal tell me a tale of unrequited love, or the story of a man who’d strayed. In those cases, “I love you” usually meant Thanks for listening. Or there were the times I’d make sure a girl got home safe after being left at the club by all of her drunk friends. “I love you” meant Thanks for getting me home safe. “I love you” never really meant I love you.

I smiled, pinched Tracy’s cheek and replied, “I love you too, kid.”

Tracy peeled my hand off of her face, threw it to the side and said, “No, you don’t understand! I love you!”

Just then, the storefront gate slid down and landed on Tracy’s forehead, knocking her down to the ground. Turned out that someone forgot to secure the gate with both pegs. I stopped the gate from coming down all the way and hitting Tracy again, but by then the bump on her head had already started growing.

I never saw Tracy again. Maybe it was all for the best, because I was all out of things to say–the sky had fallen and I needed to find a new horizon.

Tags: drunk · love · nightclub