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I checked the time. It was a little past twelve. But that wouldn’t be a biggie for Chels. So I called her.
She answered immediately and asked me to come down to The Boardroom, a new bar that had opened in town.
Caution thrown to the wind and a quick outfit change later, I took the subway to Times Square. Chelsea was already waiting for me. From the look on her face, I knew that we were going to be doing a lot more things before we’d end up at The Boardroom—if we made it there at all.
“You’re gonna make me walk, aren’t you?” I groaned, already wishing I hadn’t worn my heels.
“No better way to explore this sexy beast of a city, Rors!” she yelled, already high on her own adrenaline.
New York at night was a whole different animal, alive, throbbing, no different from a seductive woman unafraid to embrace her femininity.
The minute we got off the subway, we were hit with a sensory overload.
Bright neon lights, the smells of hot dogs, pretzels, and popcorn, and the sounds of honking cars and street performers filled the air. It was like we were in a movie.
We made our way through the crowds, weaving in and out of people, dodging street vendors, and taking in all the sights.
Chelsea was snapping photos left and right while I tried to keep up with her pace.
“Chels, slow down!” I shouted as she pulled me through the crowds. “I can barely keep up with you!”
“Girl, you’re twenty-three, and you'd better believe we’ll be moving like this even when we’re sixty-three, okay? Come on!”
We walked through Times Square, and I felt like a kid in a candy store.
The billboards were as big as buildings, and the lights shone brighter than the combined futures of all my ancestors. I couldn't help but grin from ear to ear.
We made our way to a hot dog cart and ordered a couple or three. As we waited for our food, we watched a street performer doing some crazy acrobatics.
The guy was a human spider, climbing up a lamppost and then flipping down to the ground.
Our hot dogs arrived, and we chowed down as we walked, taking in more sights and sounds. We wandered into a dimly lit alley and found a small jazz club—a.k.a., The Boardroom.
We decided to grab a drink.
Chelsea had been right. This was one of the prettiest bars in town. Dramatic, dimly lit, and offset by mellow jazz, it didn’t scream the raunchiness that so typified the spaces we usually frequented.
We took two seats by the long bar table, a marvel of mahogany. The bartender, a sexy, curvy woman with a pixie cut and gray eyes, served us our martinis.
“New here?” she asked.
I nodded. “This place is so unique. It's like a spaceship!”
She grinned. “Yeah, it’s themed on the ragtime era. We wanted to emphasize the love of everything vintage.”
True to her words, the space was small and intimate, with dim lighting. Vintage posters advertising ragtime shows and events from the early 1900s completed the set-up. The air was thick with the sound of syncopated rhythms, with patrons keeping tapping their feet to keep tune.
Cigar smoke and whiskey haze permeated the air, adding to the thrumming energy.
“Hang on,” Chelsea replied. “D’you own this place?”
“Yeah.” She smiled like a proud mother hen. “Me and my girlfriend. We pooled in our life’s savings to get this baby on its feet.”
I chose a creamy cocktail emulsion and walked over to the dance floor. Chelsea followed, and both of us let our hair down, just enjoying the low music and the ambiance.
Two dudes tried cozying up to us, but we weren’t having it. Chelsea wagged her finger at them. “You don’t look old enough to be here.”
“We’re thirty and thirty-five,” they replied, blushing like schoolboys caught in the middle of a lie.
