Part 2: Me and Danny McKee

The Kandinsky might be the hippest hotel for plutocrats I’ve been to, not that I have much experience traversing the spaces of the well to-do. When I pulled up in my dusty economy car, I immediately felt like what I am: a whore on call, except that I hate that kind of derogatory language and would never use it to describe anyone but myself. Tonight I’m an expensive escort on a date with a rich and powerful man. Nobody looks at me sideways. The valet takes my car and I’m greeted as I enter the posh white lobby littered with furniture that doubles as functional contemporary sculpture. There’s an exhibition in a display case that snakes around the lobby. It’s some artist painting parodies of famous works of art with his signature smiley faces. I’m more taken by the planters, painted with brightly pigmented paints and shaped like macaroni noodles. A group of tall white men congregate wearing designer streetwear. They look like they’re about my age but they talk loudly about which is better nowadays, a Tesla or a Porsche.

Danny walks over to where I’m sitting and we hug.

Him: I’m a lot more sober this time. Sorry about before.

Me: I’m glad, and don’t worry about it. I need you to handle my valet stuff, though.

We go over to the front desk where the attendant takes Danny’s information and validated my valet ticket.

Him: I get twenty-percent off drinks right?

Her: Yes, you do. As long as you get them at the Sky Bar.

Him: Do I need to tell them my room number?

They discuss the logistics of his discount and it strikes me as terribly ironic. Here I am, a person he is paying over a thousand dollars to see, yet here we are, discussing drink discounts. He turns to me.

Him: Shall we?

Me: Yes, but give me a second, I need to touch this chair first.

The chair looked like a marshmallow with an indentation for one to sit. I had to know what it was made of. I assumed some kind of cheap plastic, but I wanted to touch anyway. I bent down. So disappointingly average. But still, my curiosity was satisfied.

Him: Shall we go upstairs first to settle or go straight for a drink downstairs?

I wanted to get rid of my stained, faux-leather Target purse. Danny wanted to start making his way through his bag of blow. We took the elevator, which streamed what the DJ downstairs was playing, up to the tenth floor. Danny was staying in another lavish room, this time one with a private balcony. Everything was white and dubiously useful. There was a little table for eating and two chairs, but one seemed to be for sitting at the table, while the other one was decidedly not for sitting at any table. It was round with a broad cumbersome base, and required Danny and I to both simultaneously push it to get it at all near the table. It spun away from us. We eventually gave up and laughed at how hard we had struggled just to sit close together.

Me: They made this room for one person and one person only. No guests allowed.

Him: It certainly seems that way, doesn’t it?

Me: The one thing I hate about these rooms are the white sheets. I mean, I get why they do it, but it’s never inviting.

I riffled through my big purse and produced my little dancer purse, and within the little dancer purse I found the tiny baggy and handed it over to him.

Him: What do you use, PayPal? Venmo?

Me: Both. Or Zelle.

Him: Let me take care of you before—

He was doing bumps and searching his phone to pay me. I was glad not to fight him for it. He put down his phone to properly devote himself to inhaling a lot of coke.

Him: This stuff is pretty good.

Me: Did you finish?

Him: Yeah, check your phone.

I got my favorite text with my favorite amount of money. If I could avoid dealing with lowly hundreds and only handle thousands, I would be a happy heaux.

Him: Do you want some?

This was the moment I’d agonized over. Usually he likes me to party with him, but I really didn’t want to tonight unless I absolutely had to. I’ve been talking to my therapist about my drug use as a business tool, and she was concerned because it seemed I was not doing it for my own enjoyment. Admittedly, she’s a civilian, and my world is strange and new to her. I take her advice with a grain of salt, but at the same time, she had a point. I don’t enjoy coke, which is somewhat surprising because I enjoy a wide variety of drugs and have never shied from experimenting. I vacillate on the topic, because there’s nothing more American than apple pie and sealing a deal over a line. How many investors, lawyers, and CEO’s have I watched get high after winning a deal, a case, or whatever piece of the world they’ve managed to colonize? I think I like the symbology of coke more than the actual experience. Tonight however, I didn’t want any. I had to wake up in the morning for therapy, and I didn’t want to disrupt my sleep cycle or deal with an emotional hangover.

Him: You don’t have to if you don’t want to.

Me: I’m good for tonight.

I’d brought a vial of K in case he wanted drug company. I figured I could do that if necessary, but he seemed content to party alone.

Him: Don’t feel like you have to do anything you don’t want to.

Me: Thanks.

We went downstairs to the Sky Bar. They were hosting a monthly pop-up with a vintage shop, fitness booth, and some DIY art for sale. I found myself counting black people, making sure I wasn’t the only negress in this joint. Thankfully I wasn’t alone. The hotel sits on the crest of a hill, and the bar has a panoramic view of the city. We sat at a table by a window and ordered drinks. Technically I’m not supposed to be drinking. I started a generic form of Accutane, so drinking and pregnancy are forbidden, but I allowed myself to enjoy a single glass of red wine.

Him: This place used to be the spot. It was always packed. Used to be so you couldn’t get in after a certain time. Couldn’t get a table then either.

He looked at me with a warm smile on his round pink face.

Him: I missed you.

Me: It’s good to see you.

Him: You have so many looks. At first when I was coming down to see you, I wasn’t sure if I’d recognize you. Your hair is different this time.

Me: It’s always different. It’s black girl magic.

Him: I don’t even know if I remember what you looked like the first time. I think you had a curly blonde wig on maybe?

Me: Actually, it was my real hair that time. The next time I was wearing a wig, then you saw my short hair.

Him: Well, I like it. However you do it. Can I have a hug?

I leaned in and Danny affectionately smushed my face into his arm. My foundation left a halo on his black long sleeve shirt. I felt like the Virgen de Guadalupe leaving her impression on Juan Diego’s cloak.

Me: Did you know it’s been a year since we first met? I remember because it was at the Valentine’s Day party.

Him: I remember that party. I remember asking Ronnie who was fun and he pointed out two of the Russian girls. I had just seen you walking by and I asked him about you. He tried to tell me not to because you were too— I forget what he said exactly, something like “wholesome” and he knew I liked crazy. You were busy with some other guys. It took a while before you paid attention to me.

Me: I honestly don’t remember anyone but you that night. And the Russian.

Him: Which?

Me: The one who went with us to the room, Natasha. Who was very... intense. She’s a hard woman and I appreciated that.

Him: She’s a real hustler, and I respect that. Earlier while I was waiting for you, this redhead Russian had come up to me and asked if I wanted a room. She was pretty in a way that almost looked Irish, and I couldn’t say no. That was the first time I’d taken viagra. She was a lot of fun, open to anything but not very good at communication. I think it was a language barrier issue, but you know how I am— how I like to talk. I would say something like, “You know what would be fun?” and she was down for it. I realized I had really met my match with her when I kept saying crazier and crazier things and she kept going along with it without missing a beat. At one point I even started talking about you. I don’t think she knew who I was talking about or anything, but we were fucking and I was fingering her ass and talking about what I wanted to do with you.

Me: That’s kinda sweet.

Our waitress passed by. I’d asked her for water but it seemed she’d forgotten. My mouth was dry, perhaps from nervousness over the situation and my out-of-placeness.

Him: I like her.

Me: I think she forgot us.

Him: Well, now I don’t like her. I think I just liked her outfit. You know what I wish?

Me: What?

Him: Imagine with me for a moment. What if we took her back to the room, but instead of fucking her we just made her take off her clothes so that you could wear them. And then she had to watch us fucking.

Me: I’ve never thought of that one before.

Him: Did I tell you about that girl who got me into everything?

Me: The pee girl?

Him: Yes, her! She and I used to swap clothes all the time. She would put on my boxers and all, and I would wear her panties and bra. Of course, that couldn’t work with you and me because of the size difference, but imagine if you could grow and I could shrink so we could fit into each other’s clothes.

Me: What if you found a man who looks just like you and a woman who looks just like me to dress like us and fuck?

Him: That’s amazing! I’ve never even considered that. I love your mind, how you think of things I’ve never thought about. Of course, I never wonder about finding someone who looks just like me because I’m an identical twin. I have a twin brother. I told you that right?

Me: I don’t remember. Show me a picture!