by Zack
3:15 AM on the edge of downtown
where it’s not quite dangerous and not quite safe
in line with eight others in front of the bail bond building
across the street from the bus station
IMMIGRANT LAW glowing like a halo above your head
sweaty figures off to the side squatting in the parking lot
smoldering cigarette butts dangling from lips so red they glow in the dark
muted chattering
flirting
panting
coming from their enclave
shuffle forward it’s almost your turn
fumble for your cash
“empty pockets, arms out”
“you’re good”
walk inside, a glowing red staircase
bodies staggering down in front of you
steeper than you remember
you’re at the top of the city now except there’s no windows
eyesight is useless here you only have sound
and scent
and touch
hand your cash to the man at the table
do you know him?
bright pink paper band slapped on the wrist means you’re safe tonight
you’ve passed the test
come and go as you please
come have a drink
one tequila soda please
only two ingredients but somehow it’s terrible
bartender couldn’t hear you anyway
they learn to read lips here
you will too before you leave
the sound is scaring you
like a warring horde is in the next room and you can’t see them
only hear the sound of their armored feet stomping bringing chaos and doom
the Greeks called this kakophonia
they are guerillas and irregulars and the cavalry on horseback and the drafted kids and soon enough you’ll be one of them
a soldier in this battle waged by the blind
but not yet
take your drink down the hall
collect yourself
you sit down in a room
televisions on the walls showing sex
don’t look too long or they’ll think you’re a cop
there’s others here but they’re more loaded than you
you wouldn’t be able to hear them anyway
you’re in a dark basement two stories up
and the sound of your voice is drowned out
a man in sunglasses approaches
touches you on the top of your head
he’s shirtless and shining and smiling
“are you real?”
what an awful question to be asked at this specific moment
or any moment
you lean in to speak but he wants to kiss
“excuse me I’ll be right back”
you walk past the horde on the floor
(we’ll return here soon)
drums and drums and drums and drums and drums and drums and drums
picking your way across spilled drinks and discarded clothes
black stalls on your right
for those who want to do their drugs and have oral sex without being asked to share
their powders or their mouths
you turn around down the narrow stairs again
you don’t smoke but nevertheless you join the squatters and share a menthol with a woman you don’t know
a couple is spat out from the staircase
“I’m leaving” she says
“I’m too high” he says and starts to cry
you hike back up
one more drink
the sound has never been louder the people have never been more beautiful
if you just start moving it’ll make sense eventually
and it does
and then you can’t stop and you’re no longer yourself
you’re a part of the horde
and you’ve learned to read lips
and bodies
and eyes
everyone here is part of a ritual
a kinesthetic cum psychoactive seance
five minutes here is actually three hours
the music fades away and you’ve sweat through both your layers
very bashful of you to keep your layers on
the horde is only ten or eleven bodies now where earlier it was millions
and you return to inferno.
It’s light out, and it’s time for you to go home.
Zack is a graduate student studying Economics in Boston. He spent the best decade of his life living in Pittsburgh, and will always be a yinzer.
PETRICHOR 
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