And so are the prospects of late night drinking in bars with backyard patios, sweaty one night stands, outdoor music festivals, congestion causing tourists, unbearably humid subway platforms, ubiquitous hacky sackers, interminable people watching: scantily clad girls, ruddy from the sun, smelling of wild flowers from lotion, and seemingly oblivious to the commotion they cause.
Summer is definitely here. But there is something else. Aspects of human interaction that take on entirely different significance in the heat – something primal – plays out with little subtlety during the summer. I’m no expert on the mechanics of the olfactory sense, but I’d swear mood carries better through heat than in cold. Like wild beasts that can smell blood or dogs that sense fear, I quiver ever so slightly when I’m surrounded by enough of you to inundate the senses. I feel as if I’m in a documentary on the social habits of our species, and I lap the air to get a sense of what stage we’re at.
On the dance floor a girl in a black top that rides low in the back and tight jeans is flanked by two guys, one dressed in a cotton dress shirt - untucked, the other, a two-size-too-small band shirt. All three have drinks in their hands, and they sway rhythmically to the music…No, she is slithering, punctuating the music with her hips (sometimes missing the beat, engrossed as she is in her own movement), and the guys are following her. This is why guys are a little off when they dance; they aren’t really paying attention to the music.
At the far end of the bar, stand a few heavily tattooed guys. They talk, stare, grab their beers firmly. But in this crowded, poorly ventilated bar, their authority is being shown little deference as people shuffle to get the bartender’s attention, to go to the bathroom, or to their friends. The surly see no point in lashing out since no single unfortunate face has stepped up to receive the brunt of their dissatisfaction.
I step outside with some friends for a smoke, even though I don’t. The party is as much outside as in. People stand around involving themselves in their own smoke. Some have brought their beers out with them, slyly turning their back to oncoming traffic; the bouncer has given up asking them to keep their voices down for the neighbors living above the bar. On a short stoop, a guy is passed out as his friends try to hail a cab but can’t seem to contain their laughter or themselves from falling into the street.
I begin to feel something as the overall conversation outside starts to wane. Slowly smokers begin turning their heads to get a better listen; some peek into the bar to get a look. Through the thick, warped blocks of glass, I see erratic movement inside the bar, then a lunge that sends a shock wave through the crowd. Glass is breaking, girls are being trampled under the thrashing bodies, and tables are being overturned. In a flash, the melee spills on to the street.
I know this feeling – the smell of it, the taste of it. I felt it when I was ten, and a neighbor jumped off the roof of my building; when friends of mine were playing manhunt, and I arrived just in time to watch one of them get hit by a truck. When I walked over to my local park and saw a fight break out between 10-20 people I knew that concluded in box cutters being pulled. In every instance it was summer, and each time I walked into it knowing something was off and that what was going to happen was the only thing that could’ve. Each and every time it seemed like a suppressed, ritualistic impulse to wreak havoc, like animals on a rampage.
Back in front of the bar, the brawl was temporarily stopped as sides were being drawn; it turns out that the pretty boys dancing with the girl are close friends with the bouncer. The guy who got into a shoving match with them is friends with the tattooed bruisers by the bar. Some frat guys are uneasy because their girlfriends had been pushed. I recognize some faces among the disgruntled and realize it isn’t a good sign. They’re the kind of people that are better to keep as acquaintances than to have as enemies.
I stand off to the corner and watch - the heat, the alcohol, the presence of females effecting and deranging the thoughts of the dominant primates. It only takes a few unintelligible words to reignite the fight. Fists go flying, reaching over, around – most of the time unsuccessfully – individuals using their bodies to put distance between the combatants. The fight ensues with little understanding as to who is in fact fighting who. With the bouncer, the only nominal authority, involved in the fight and no sign of cops any where and sketchy characters with a history of carrying weapons involved in the free-for-all, I wait patiently, until it finally ends with…well…you tell me how it ends come autumn.
