WHAT IT'S LIKE AT THE CLUB
August 23rd, 2025 | kobi ansong
The SUV spaceship is frozen in traffic. Mister, the Turkish driver says. Too much cars. It’s just one block. Do you like to walk? No thanks. We roll to a stop in front of the club. The line stretches so far, the back might not exist. I emerge from the backseat, shades on even though it’s night. Eyes are scanning me. They probably think I’m someone to know. I go straight to the front. There’s some back and forth with the goliath bouncer. I won’t bore you with details.
I’m in. It’s hazy and hot like a pregame for hell. I squeeze through humans, guiding drunks away from my boots. This nasty area is the main floor. General population in jail terms. These people spend an hour in line, drop $40 at the door, just to spend the night spilling watery tequilas.
I’m in the section now standing on the couch, which is welcomed here. All sections are the same really. Bottles, hookah, couches, and girls, who never, no matter what, pay for sections. I give my boy an ultimatum: take another shot, or punch the DJ. They had beef in high school or something. He takes the shot.
Suddenly, a parade of women in glittery leotards invade our section with bottles that are emitting spectacular flames. Despite the mazel tov cocktails, these women aren’t terrorists. They’re bottle girls, and this odd and dangerous ritual is called bottle service. The purpose is attention. A dozen people float into our section, a result of the bottle service. Some I know, most for decoration.
I’m chatting to a cute girl with a gap. She smells like one of those Bedstuy herb shops. She’s going to Ghana next week. We talk about the Akan philosophy, Sankofa. Something about embracing your roots. The conversation is ambitious as far as club dialogue goes. We text once or twice, but never hang out. Everyone knows you can’t find love at the club.
The DJ drops March Madness. I’ve ingested the perfect proportion of 1942, weed, and hookah. The next 90 seconds is like catching the holy ghost. Life is glorious indeed! In reality, I haven’t paid taxes in three years.
Suddenly, I’m yanked from the couch. The goliath bouncer is squeezing me like empty toothpaste. I try to shake free, but the only movement I manage are eye blinks. My boys are being dragged too. We’re on the curb now, disheveled and dazed. What the fuck? I say. My friend is shadowboxing with a sinister smirk. Got that stupid nigga, he says. The DJ steps out of the club with 15 dudes behind him, pointing straight at us. Guess he did punch the DJ.
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photography by Prime