Club Zu

by Jason Tougaw

club zu

Creepie ghoulies and New Romantics share the love outside Club Zu in Solana Beach, California.

Hips wave and duck. Arms move in unison, right to left, fists gently closed, like they’re pulling a big lever. When the chorus comes, You spin me right round, baby, right round, like a record baby, several dancers interrupt the lever pulling for a brief miming of a record turning, palm down, on cue, right round round round. Kelsey, the nineteen-year-old owner of Club Zu, is on stage, next to a guy in a cape with a skeleton dangling from his ear, its arm looped through the ring in his nose. He waves his arms like a snake charmer, legs together, swaying. Kelsey wears red plaid pants, a black sweater, and black boots. His hair is black and stands up straight off his head. He seems to be looking at nothing, like he’s too inside the music to notice all these people who’ve come to his club from all over San Diego County in their newest outfits, hair freshly dyed, debuting their latest make-up concepts.

I’m eyeing Kelsey’s two friends, who round out the trio of what I consider the coolest people on earth. Tara is tall, pale, lush, the biggest and most gorgeous goth girl here. Her hair is black, with royal blue roots, eyes pale blue, black eyebrows, lips royal with black liner, diamond in her nose. Brian is tiny next to her, with a crimped copper bob, black eyeliner, no lipstick, brocade vest, pegged black wool pants. They’re friends with The Thompson Twins, who hang out here whenever they’re in town for a show.

As Dead or Alive fades into the intro to Visage’s “Fade to Grey,” I hear Paul tell somebody, “this is the twelve-inch.” One man on a lonely platform. One case sitting by his side. I can’t help staring at Kelsey and his friends. “You want to be introduced?” Shannon asks. “You think Kelsey’s cute?” I do, but that’s not it. I want to be them. I adjust the dangling rhinestones in my ear and feel sticky wet behind my lobe. Paul pierced my ear before we caught the bus to the coast, with a needle and rubbing alcohol. He told me to wear the stainless steel stud he had from when he got his pierced at the mall, but I was dying to wear my new rhinestones. We’re pretending we don’t care that we don’t have a ride home.

“We’re going outside,” Paul whispers in my ear as I fiddle with it, “as soon as the song ends.” Wishing life wouldn’t be so dull. Pull, wave, duck, charm, bend, sway.

“Okay, come on,” Paul says, hooking arms with a tiny girl I’ve never seen, but whose rold model is clealry Siouxsie. “I heard Steve Strange has AIDS,” she says as we squeeze through the waving ducking swaying bending crowd. She’s talking about Visage’s singer.

“Really?” I ask. I’m excited to a degree that verges on panic. His new friend brought up the subject that scares me the most. I don’t tell anybody, but I think about AIDS periodically each day, tracing imagined sexual histories for any guy who’s had sex with any guy I’ve made out with. And any guy Paul has. If I’ve got, he does. And vice versa. I don’t know anybody with HIV yet. It will be several years before I’ll have friends who die from AIDS. But this is the beginning of ten years of panic.

“It’s the rumor in London,” she says. I have no idea, at fifteen, that I’m even more afraid of the people I want to be, like Paul’s new friend, who seems to carry rumors across the Atlantic, who drops casual remarks about the health of New Romantic stars I stare at on record covers and videos. If I want all this so badly, why does it freak me out so much?

Thankfully, Warren and Tiffany interrupt my angsty Visage fueled reverie. Theylank us, with two short girls with shaved heads. “Let’s go.” No time for thinking. We’ve known Tiffany since grade school. Now she’s got a mowhawk, and she and Warren are an item. We follow.

“Where are we going?” I ask, regretting the question and feeling like a dork.

“Just come on,” Warren says, patting his back pocket.

We follow him down the alley behind the club. There are some concrete steps with grass growing pretty high out of the cracks, leading to a path along the cliff, where you can climb down to the beach. We can hear waves smashing on the shore below. Warren sits on the steps, surrounded by girls. Tiffany climbs to the top. She and Warren haven’t held hands or kissed all night. The rest of us fill in around the steps. Warren takes a lighter and pipe out of his pocket, digs around some more and pulls out his pot. “Yum,” he says, holding the baggy up to the light from the street lamp, flicking the pot with his index finger and watching it bounce and settle. “Sticky bud. Hawaiian.”

Every now and then Warren starts talking like this, flaunting the collision of his full lips painted red and the surfer boy words coming out of them.

Warren fills the pipe gently, careful to rub the sticky bud into dust without losing any. He lights, sucks, breathes in, hands the pipe to Emily, who lights, sucks, breathes, hands the pipe to Scratch. “Oh yeah,” Warren says, breathing out a cloud of smoke, filling the air with the smell of my mom’s parties. “That’s it,” he says. Somehow, filtered through Warren’s lungs and clinging to the salt in the air, the dense sweet smell seems to have lost all traces of my mom, her boyfriends, my uncles, or their friends. This may be the same pot hippies and metalheads smoke, but it manages to smell like new wave.

Paul takes a hit. He lights, sucks, breathes, hands the pipe to me. I hold it to my mouth and flick the lighter. The flame burns my thumb. I have trouble keeping it lit long enough to burn the pot, but I’m determined. I suck in a cloud of smoke as Paul spurts one out, coughing, laughing. “I can’t stop,” he laughs. “I can’t stop.”

“You didn’t get a hit,” Warren say, hopping off the steps and reaching for the pipe. “Let me help.” He snaps the lighter and tells me to suck. I cough. Paul laughs. Warren and Tiffany laugh. I laugh through more coughs, afraid I might throw up. My ear throbs. There’s a scab growing around the fastener at the back of my lobe, gluing the heavy rhinestones in place. But I got a hit. I’m high, like Warren, with Warren. “Let’s dance,” he says. “Put on your red shoes,” putting his arm around me, lighting the pipe, sucking, and then blowing the smoke into my mouth, grazing my lips.

“I’m so stoned,” Paul says as we walk. “Oh my god, I feel like I’m floating.” I’m not sure if I feel anything or not, but Warren’s lips almost just touched mine.

“Floating on a cloud of love,” Warren says.

“Oh my god, could you be any more of a cliché?” Paul says.

When we show our stamps and re-enter, Kelsey and his friends are dancing to “Collapsing New People” by Fad Gadget. We duck and wave to blend in, sway and bend with the crowd to Soft Cell, Heaven 17, Haysi Fantayzee, Cee Farrow, Blancmange, The Human League, Fashion.

At the stroke of two a.m., the lights come up and the dancers shield their eyes in imitation of Vampires stranded under a rising sun. “I hate to say goodbye,” Kelsey announces over the sound system, “but you creepy ghoulies have to go out into the night. Before the lights melt your foundation.” People pretend not to smile as they circle each other out the door, onto the sidewalk, into cars. Scratch has a car, but it’s full.

“Let’s hit the beach,” Warren says. “Watch the sun rise. First bus is 5:41.”

We follow him up the concrete stairs, seven ride-less, beach-bound stragglers in melting foundation. We have to navigate wobbly stairs with rope for banisters down the cliff.  We feel around in the dark with our feet for a spot without rocks or seaweed. We sit, stars above us beaming just enough light to see the sand particles creeping into our velvet, spandex, lace, and wool. We can hear the waves and just see their froth.  Warren lights the pipe, making his face glow. His lips are puffy, sucking, his eyes almost transparent they’re so light.

“It’s so fuckin’ cold,” Paul says. We all have our arms wrapped around our torsos.

“Let’s cozy up for body warmth,” Warren says, shaking out a shiver. We huddle, a line of beached newros. “Pot will help.” I close my eyes and pretend to sleep while the rest of them light, suck, and breathe, until I really am sleeping, inside a dewy sweet cloud.

I wake warmer, sun on my face, one of the girls shaking me. “You have to see this,” she says, pointing to the glowing pink sun over the cliff, ascending the lavender sky. “Look at the sun,” she says. The pink glows oranger by the second. It’s almost striped: bubblegum pink, red-orange, pure orange. There’s an L-shaped speck of black toward the bottom, like dust on a camera lens.

“It’s a sun spot,” Paul says, sounding encyclopedic, as usual. “It’s probably fucking up satellite communications. The fog’s making it so we can look with the naked eye.” Periwinkle waves lap tan sand at our backs while we watch, their white froth invisible now, canceled out by the white dawn bleaching the sky and sand.

I have no way of knowing it, but Steve Strange will be alive in 2013, releasing a new Visage record. Robert Smith, Siouxsie, and Duran Duran will all still be making records. I will be alive. For now, my earlobe is all scab, the blood caking the edges of the rhinestone poking through it. I taste my finger after fiddling with it, and it’s kind of like licking the ocean.

 

From the manuscript of my memoir, The One You Get: Portrait of a Family Organism (represented by Carrie Howland at Donadio & Olson).

 

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