Fader Friday

Our elbows balanced on the low wall, our hands gripping bottle-shaped cans of gifted Bud Select (a sponsor), sparkly adornments swinging heavy from our earlobes.

This was Friday night, and we were ready.

The Fader party was a tribute to Nina Simone, a soulful jazz musician and fixture of the civil rights movement. The first to entertain starred a singer (Tiombe Lockhart) whose honey-coated voice was only matched by the slink of her hips.

“This is for Nina,” she purred as her black dress swished around her thighs. Her bassist bopped his head rhythmically, popping his thumbs along the strings.

The crowd at Joe’s Pub loved her set—the eclectic urban vibe, candle flames licking the table with swoops of light. Behind the stage a slideshow clicked, stills in black and white picturing a legend, emanating blue beyond the screen.

During the change we flipped through the stiff and smooth pages of the magazine, stealing glances at the seemingly-too-young publisher, only thought of because he was hosting the party--we were merely plus-ones--and it was painfully clear that he could wear Pumas to work while we never would.

Next up, Mira Billotte of White Magic took to the piano, accompanied by a man bearing a striking--and in our near stupor, hilarious--resemblance to Philip Seymour Hoffman (Doug Shaw). Her long hair slipped across her Big Love-inspired dress as she sweetly whispered renditions reminiscent of Rainer Maria.

The Budweiser ran out halfway through, but her voice kept us there anyway.

Afterwards everyone headed to Puck Fair for the afterparty. We made plans to meet up with the boys at Bowery Bar, where we would pretend it was still in its heyday and slurp strawberry martinis under the glow of colored bulbed-lit trees.

On the way in, we shook the rain from our trenches and chatted with the bouncer.

Didn’t he get bored out there? We wondered, didn’t he hate just standing there and dodging requests and drunks all night? We insisted he take a magazine, and read the Nina spread. He smiled thanks.

When the boys arrived, they called us frantically from the curb. A torrential downpour, a walk since they first thought we were at McSorely’s, and now, no more guys allowed.

“Stay here,” I pointed to her Lemon Drop, “and keep drinking.” I came to the door, tipping once in my heels, and then to the gatekeeper, still cradling the magazine.

“Hi again!” I said.

“Hey baby. What’s good?” He managed, as three meaty drunks pawed at him (“We got chicks coming, dude. Swear! And like, hot ones!”)

I motioned to my wet friends. And with a nod, they were in.

Note to self: from now on, bring magazines, not bills, for greasing palms on Friday nights on Bowery. And weasel an invite to every Fader party possible.