Last Night On Earth

My last time at Boogaloo, back in November, God told me to have balance in all things. "We must be positive," he said, leaning in, cigarette smoke seeping out with the words.

"Be positive. And we must have balance. Light, dark. Good, bad. Balance, but always, always-still positive."

"Fuck yeah," I answered in that clipped, slightly aggro tone I get when the last bits are coming on and sunrise is still safely tucked away in the future.

Though I don't smoke, that night I was smoking-mostly because I wasn't drinking and needed something to keep me busy. Outside of the small club, I met God, who turns out to be a very pleasant man in his mid 20s, originally from Israel but coming up on his ninth year in the city. My new friend's proper first name was nigh on unpronounceable for me-I have a clumsy tongue when it comes to language, which is frustrating because I have a very good brain for language-so he bade me refer to him by his middle name.

God.

One of the 12 tribes of Israel.

Gad, actually.

Gad smokes, and was also a bit high, which explains the talk about "having balance" and "being positive." Our friends in common were spinning inside. It was such a fine evening that I was happy to do it again this past weekend.

First I had to get there.

When I was a kid, I wished for apocalypse. Enamored with films like Mad Max and role-playing games like Gamma World-and beginning to feel adolescence creep awkwardly into my bones-I wanted a different life. No matter how pants-shitting scary The Day After was at the time, my thoughts turned to survival rates and blast radii. Would my hometown, just 25 miles west of Manhattan, be incinerated? Or would I have time to find a dog, ammunition and enough canned goods to survive?

There I was, Saturday night, taking a cab over the Williamsburg Bridge, imagining a mushroom cloud in midtown, wondering if I would be incinerated, blown to bits or just tossed off the bridge and into the water below. Because, boy, did I want to see this fucking city destroyed.

Boogaloo is a stone's throw from the JMZ line in Williamsburg. I don't like to take cabs, so I planned on the ACE to JMZ. Long story short, I waited 30 minutes to take a still-fucked A train downtown at a crippled retard's pace. Then, of course, the transfer was closed; going back to 14th St. wouldn't help because the L train was shut down for the entire weekend. Since it was cold enough to kill bums, I abandoned the public-transport ship and grabbed a cab-already one hour into what should've been a quick hop.

I've hated this city at many points during the last 10 years. On Saturday night, I remembered that it hates us-all of us-even more.

And so, while watching the taxi's meter steal my money in 40 cents at a time: visions of apocalypse. Of course, I'd prefer the city to be empty when the fission hits the fan, but civilian casualties will be unavoidable. I've weighed the benefits of Armageddon on, say, a summer weekend, but that would be unfair: The only people who leave town are assholes with Hampton shares. The working class sits and sweats, Saturday after Saturday, and doesn't deserve incineration in a ball of fire. I'd prefer a barrage of smart bombs smart enough to kill only men who wear khakis and women who wear Uggs. And vice-versa, of course.

I got to Boogaloo well after midnight, and was greeted with pills. I don't drink very much when I'm with these friends. Instead, we dabble with chemicals and usually smoke-talk, listen to music, watch movies. Saturday night, they had a batch of Russian ecstasy. The pills were stamped with the Superman "S" and reminded me of the Moroccan in Prague who was always trying to sell me cocaine. I hate cocaine, and hated it more when this scumbag referred to it as "charley."

It was almost quaint, taking ecstasy. Such a common part of my life overseas, reduced to reminiscence here, where the $20 price tag prohibits two-pill nights and quality is spotty. This weekend, I didn't reach that peak where my shoes feel like marshmallows, but I can't blame the chemist. I'd been up late the night before, so beneath the cocktail my body was exhausted. My ass felt like it weighed 500 pounds; rather than dance, I sat and talked and listened.

Another good thing about these friends: They live nearby. As the sun came closer, I hit their couch. With the help of some Argentina-bought Diazepam, me and my 500-pound ass were asleep in no time.

A few hours later, I was on the JMZ. I wisely transferred to the F, and walked home from Herald Square. Maybe it was the lingering drug, but even in the bitter cold, even with the crowds of tourists clogging the area around Macy's, I couldn't remember why I was so angry the night before. Next time, I said, I'll just get started earlier. And maybe check online for service interruptions.

It's possible New York City doesn't hate us. Maybe it just doesn't care.