When Shadows Speak

When Shadows Speak

When I was granted access to the room there were only speckled shadows engulfed in a black light. Characteristics were not distinguishable nor could I recall who proceeded me into space. I tried to recall the invitation I saw online and the associates I had forwarded it to, but those recollections were no longer in my purview. I had thought it odd that there weren’t any directions on the invitation nor instructions regarding attire or arrival; only pictures of a venue labelled Past Midnight. The place had this gothic air like those old movie theatres often staged in horror films with red drapery, black antique doors trimmed in gold and an eerie vacant ticket booth outside. I was intrigued.

Instinct told me that it could be dangerous, but my current maxim is that life without risk is not worth living. I had been an absent soul since adolescence; only speaking when spoken to and never being asked or offering my opinion or perspective. I knew early on my thoughts were not particularly important nor appreciated by anyone in my circles. I was on this earth to serve a limited purpose; to be my parent’s child, my husband’s wife, and my children’s mother. I had told more often than not that anything else was beyond my scope. Then I became an adult, got divorced and cried when my children left home. I was left holding an empty glass of unspoken words and unexpressed feelings. What was I to do?

I discovered the internet. While never really being interested or exposed to technological trends, one day I sat down in front of my laptop with my cup of Taster’s Choice and started surfing. I accessed influencer blogs, chat rooms, and national news outlets. I discovered there is a wealth of information available to anyone who could type and discourse circulated daily between people like me void of economic status and social and political agendas. People whose only communicative risk is typing their viewpoint on pages that will never be read by anyone of importance or value. Like in my adolescence, I realized again that no one cared if I thought President Trump isa modern-day Hitler or that skinheads are just the KKK without sheets. I would remain insignificant and safe in the larger scheme of things while expressing any view I had and the online invite to Past Midnight was my opportunity to act upon these views.

The black light created dandruff-like specs on everyone’s face, hair and clothing and I maneuvered through the crowd unconsciously brushing off my jacket. I paid fifty dollars to get in and I kept rubbing the serpent tattoo on my hand. Snakes had never been my thing since I was told the story of Adam and Eve in Sunday School. It was difficult to fathom that a snake could cause so much suffering in the world. I heard Bruce Springsteen echoing from an outdated sound system haphazardly positioned on a wooden stage. Then the speakers screeched Jimi Hendrix and the stage shook, generating backlit remnants of community theatre filled with wannabe actors who never caught their break or children dressed as foliage and cloaked in home-sewn animal costumes. I looked at the shadows envisioning parents like me sitting in the audience smiling and clapping not because the children were good but because that is what parents do. Again, an human existence void of opinion or perspective.

The only light in Past Midnight was generated by neon signs indicating where Men and Women go. The doors opened to a dimly lit coldness that smelled of bleach and pot. I searched for paper. There was none. No one looked up or gazed in my direction, and I smiled knowing that I was on my own. I walked back into the spotted shadows. It was 1:40 and I suddenly recalled Tobias telling me he may attend. I scanned the room for large afros.

Tobias is my boss who became my lover after my divorce. I approached him first knowing that my aggression was an indication of growth. He did not reject nor resist. That was 3 years ago and although I moved on becoming bored with his passive sexual demeanor, we still work closely, committed to the mission of our nonprofit. He helped me realize that relevance is more important than compensation; a mindset my ex could never grasp. Being with Tobais had released a lot of my pressure and misgivings regarding success. I spotted several afros on the dance floor sprinkled with white flakes but decided to forego the search.

It was February and numerous space heaters provided warmth from various corners of the room but the heat only rose midway. Speckled hoodies and wool caps bopped up and down as the shadows vibrated with the stage. I eased my way into a cozy space in the middle of the crowd. The air reeked with stale malt panting and I swayed against someone behind me. I felt an energy pulsating against my thighs and I longed for more. I sensed that in Past Midnight words were not necessary to communicate what you wanted. All one had to do was move to the rhythm of the electricity generating in the room. I decided to turn around and saw Tobias.

He smiled that sheepish coffee-stained grin and passed me a joint. I hid my disappointment. I wanted this feel to be different; with someone without a story. That is why I came to Past Midnight. To experience an unfamiliar thrill that came with being amid hundreds of bodies pulsating together. Bodies that I did not know, had not smelled, had not yet touched nor touched me. He pointed towards the door and I shook my head. He shrugged his shoulders and disappeared into the shadows. I would talk to him on Monday.

It was approaching three am and the crowd was thinning. The shadows on the walls took on a life of their own resembling to me Andy Warhol art pieces that he decided not to finish. The music had mellowed and John Lennon reminded me to “Let It Be.” After Tobias, no one approached me from behind and I decided to leave knowing whatever it was that I initially felt, hoped for, sought after was lost. Past Midnight was an illusion that someone created that words could not define. It was an online invite to entice people like me who sought risk and validation for existing in a world that didn’t care why you exist. It was fifty dollars I could have kept.