Creative Writing from
Fairleigh Dickinson University

The Dome

Vanessa Shields

We look like drunken rabble, hopping, skipping along, on the back streets of Montreal's downtown. No one knows us here but we nod to the locals like we've been down these streets a thousand times before. I brush past pimps, whores, the sex shops, and the peep shows; my male friends are straining to see in through the half-open doors. Ah, drug dealer three o'clock; but were not in the Greenwich and you never know what these French men are gonna sell. Better for us just to pass on by and save this money in our pockets for another trip, another time.
     Our destination tonight is the Dome, one of the hot spots on the side of town that's doing a back slide. I've asked various bums for directions but they keep spinning us down dark side streets where we don't fit in. I think back to West Side Story and the lyrics "Keep coolly cool boy, real cool" pop into my head, and I suddenly feel that hustling is a priority. My friends snap their heads up and begin moving the girls to the inside of our circle as not to allow those ruthless Canadians a piece of American ass.
     After waltzing out of the "bad" side of town we start to hear the beat. I feel it in the core of me that we're approaching our destination. We skirt past a couple kids with skateboards and begin to trot toward the origin of this sound. Finally, we are skidding to a halt gasping for breath, gazing up at this warehouse of life. After almost being jumped and forced to walk through the seedy side of downtown, we are here. The Dome is spread before us like a pulsing beacon, drawing club kids in from every orifice. I am prepared for another wild night in a building that is alive with energy and youth.
     Three stories rise up out of the ground, dwarfed by the neighboring skyscrapers. Rows of crazy bopping youth line the sidewalks like the hairs on an angry dog's back. The red doors stand open and street lights shine in on the steep, tooth-like stairs. Two large men stand on either side of the door, looking like canker sores on the face of this alluring building. This is where my group and I thrive as little cells in the mass of a huge being. This building lives and breathes; it thrashes with every new pitch
     The velvet lines are parted for us and our group's pilot leads the way into the darkness. Leaving the harsh neon streetlight, we are thrust into total blackness. I look back and watch as my friends morph into their alter egos. Margaret begins to pout, Mike looks contemplative, Will starts up his smooth machine body, and my Jon just watches with a dopey grin on his face. Everybody that has either gone in before or after us will change the mood of this building. This is not just a building anymore, it has become a bisexual, transsexual, drug housing, spiritual temple of youth. It now has a face, a name, and cells to make it move.
     Our ascent brings us closer to the beat and now the walls start to palpitate. We're passing through the heart of the body now. It's dark, cozy, and very soon we will be shot out the left ventricle into a larger and brighter area. The body snatchers are at the top of the stairs glumly performing their daunting task of feeling crotches, bags, butts, and backs. We're all clean so we pay our money to the man and walk through the narrow archway. The room is expansive, rimmed with bars and crawling with scantily clad kooks. Golden light illuminates the bar and it gets steadily brighter as your eyes move to the dance floor. Four cages are hung up at the various corners of the room and a large disco ball dangles from the ceiling.
     In this swelling tidal wave of bodies I catch glimmers of bright color and half -naked bodies. Sparkling kids are climbing into the cages and others are groping each other on the raised circle in the middle of the dance floor. This area is filled with sexual energy. I can't walk a step without catching eyes with someone or being pulled backwards into the arms of some sweaty kid with raspy breath falling on my neck. I decide to step out of this sexual organ and into the realm of the addicts upstairs. When I look up I see them peering over the edges of the balcony with their white hands and darting eyes.
     Alone, I bounce up another dark stairway that leads to the bathrooms and the rooms upstairs. I now have entered the mind of the manic body I've been cruising around in for the past few hours. I drop into the bathroom and observe the fast talking cokeheads. The skinny blonde applying her lipstick informed her doped up friends about her day, "I saw Jim at Carl's and he told me that he expected me to be a prostitute by now and I told him to go to HELL!" They bore me with their senseless babble and I begin to peruse the upstairs. There are balconies that look over the street on my left. These act as eyes for finding important people in line. All of the tired and strung out are up here in small quiet circles, discussing things that I can't begin to understand right now. I walk slowly by a group of young people sitting on the floor. I hear snippets of their conversation as I glide past. "So God is supposed to be all knowing, all seeing, and all good right? Well where the fuck is he when cracked up mothers throw their newborn babies in the toaster oven?" The kids up here are the brainpower of the operation. They make money and have scary trips in this low light atmosphere. This is an insane body and it's time to get out.
     After gathering up what remains of my friends we begin our descent out through the bowels of the Dome. I don't know if I'll ever be back, but there are other clubs, bodies to invade.