Heartbreak Hotel: DJ Pickles Edition

It was one of those nights…

Sitting on my couch, I find myself staring down a bottle of the cheapest wine known to man and sobbing quietly. Okay, not that quietly. I’m reeling from a week of nonstop DoorDashing and processing emotions around (insert poly-related issue that proves communication is a rusted key and no one knows where the door is.) I’m struck by the brevity of positive romantic and sexual relationships in my life and wonder not only if I should throw in the towel but if I should toss it in the shredder. Wait, do fabric shredders even exist? I sigh. Heartbreak abound. To say I need a respite from feeling is an understatement.

I look around my apartment, in great need of tidying (not sure who’s doing that), and realize that the prospect of sipping super basic wine on the couch while watching Clone High with my cat feels more like a deepening of my growing despair than a distraction from it. Time to leave the confines of home. But where?

I scroll idly on Facebook and see there’s a pajama party happening at JBA. While clubbing tends to feel like a much younger woman’s game, the ability to boogie in the same outfit I sleep in makes it far less daunting. DJ Pickles, huh? Hopefully he’s got some tasty beats. With wit like this, how on Earth am I single?

Armed with some bucks from a kind ex and a BuzzBallz, I head downtown to dance my blues away. Or at least exhaust myself enough that I can barely think of them.

I arrive to a sparsely populated dance floor. Which, honestly, works for me – more room to groove. I waste no time, setting up shop near the stage as I wiggle my hips to a fast, syncopated version of “Say My Name” by Destiny’s Child. As I dance and sing to the chopped lyrics, I feel angst leaving the body. Concerns regarding primaries, worries about changing relationship dynamics, and fears for another year of being touch-starved diminish with every thrust and wine. Sweat beads at my forehead, and I remember why I used to love clubbing in the first place: the exhilaration of movement.

Out my head, into my body. Out of my head. Into my body. The constant hum of my anxious mind quiets. My heart beat pounds. I lose myself in the tempos and downbeats as DJ Pickles spins.

After about an hour and a half of nonstop dancing, I’m reminded I’m not 25 anymore. And like clockwork, I see two friends at the bar. Perfect excuse. And timing. I’m not tired. Just be rude not to say hi. I make my way towards them.

“Hey guys!”

“Hey, Noelle,” say Dana and Katie.

“Have y’all been here the whole time?”

They both shake their head. “We just got here,” Dana says. “We’re actually heading to the back.”

“I’ll follow you guys. I could use a cooldown.”

Out on the back patio, we find a four-top. I reintroduce myself to their other friend, Sandra and pop open my BuzzBallz (hey, I’m broke, remember?). I sip and lean back, soothed by the cool air. I breathe in deep as the warmth in my belly and prickling of my skin intermingle, creating a delicious hybrid sensation.

“So, how have you been?” Dana asks.

I make a derisive noise and gesture vaguely. “Alive, I guess?”

We all laugh, that kind of laugh that has an edge of sadness. “I don’t know, it’s just hard, I guess. Life and all.” Everyone nods in agreement. “Been sorting through a lot of trauma, actually.”

“I don’t think there’s anyone in our generation that doesn’t have some kind of trauma,” Katie says. “Between the pandemic-“

“Which hasn’t ended,” I interject.

“-And the economy. Everything is so expensive. Climate change? And the craziness of what’s going on in the world? It’s a lot. And then there’s family stuff.”

“I have a lot of that.”

“Like, I drink. A lot more than I should. And I know I should work on it. I mean, alcoholism runs in my family.”

“Mine too.”

“But it’s just like, I don’t know…”

“It helps. It numbs things, right? Makes it easier to get through all this shit.”

Another collective nod and laugh. I can’t help but think of how easy it is to get trapped in the cycles of those before us. Especially in a small city with few opportunities and even fewer outlets without a bottle attached.

We chat for a while longer, bouncing between topics of work, relationships, and motherhood. We talk about how much has changed and also how much is still the same. They mention a new spot in JBA’s old spot, Vice, and how it has the same vibes this place used to have. I think about how long it’s been, the last time since I’ve been out. And how not that long ago, I would be battling growing anxiety about needing to get home so my mom didn’t “worry.” I roll my eyes. Past control tactics formed against me shall not prosper.

“I think I’m ready to get out there,” Dana says. We all nod in agreement and head back inside.

The dance floor’s still sparse, aside from a small group of guys near the front of the stage. I watch as they stand in place and bob their heads. Then DJ Pickles does a particularly sick beat drop, to an unexpected heavy baseline mixed with a pop song that sounds vaguely from my childhood. “Yeahhhhh!!” they all cheer enthusiastically. And then return to the stand and bob. I laugh to myself. What is this, a museum? If you like the music, just dance?

We score a table right next to the dance floor (not a hard get). Dana sits down, and I grab Katie’s hand to dance. “Ooo, your hands are cold.”

“And your skin is so soft! Whatever you’re doing, keep doing it.”

“Thanks!” I say, enveloping her freezing hand in both of mine. “And it’s genetics. I don’t really do anything. You know, my family might have alcoholism, but we also have…”

“Soft skin!” we say together. We laugh, and I’m grateful for the ability to find humor in the dark corners of life.

“Hey, Noelle!!” The exclamation is so loud and abrupt that I internally startle. But the voice, the voice sounds familiar…

I turn around. It’s Joe Porter, aka Phil N. DeBlanc, aka dude I don’t fuck with doing his best impression of the wacky inflatable tube man. Seriously, my guy? I open my mouth to respond. But instead of words, I release the longest, most frustrated groan from the very depths of my soul. And with that and an eye roll, I turn my back to him, floored by the fact that men, as always, have infinite audacity. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him leave. Not just the dance floor. The establishment.

“That was amazing,” Dana says.

“Yes. You handle that with such grace and poise,” Katie says. “You didn’t engage or anything. Just used your body to let him know you weren’t interested.”

“And that’s the thing – he already knows this. I have told him both nicely and firmly that I don’t want to be friends. I even have him blocked. Like what the actual fuck?”

“I wasn’t sure what was going on, but as soon as I realized you weren’t fucking with him, I was like, buh-bye,” Dana says with a wave.

“Oh seriously? That’s perfect.” I smile, imagining a stunned Joe being waved out of the building. There was a time I would have tried to talk to him, to reason with him. Only to end up in a never-ending conversation with a toxic man who won’t take no for an answer. I can’t wait to tell my therapist.

I hit my second wind with even more gusto. While I haven’t solved my romantic heartbreak or how to handle dynamic shifts in my interpersonal relationships, I found a (mostly) healthy outlet for my feelings. I connected with friends I don’t see often. I told off an asshole in the most guttural way possible. Heartbreak be damned. The kid’s gonna be alright..