A group of four friends lines up outside the club. It’s a long line, but they can still hear the beat of the music matching the rhythm of the lights—red, yellow, green—that flash from the windows of the second floor.
The young man has a diamond earring in each ear, and he wears a heavy black coat. His companions are girls, wearing leggings and light cardigans. One of these young ladies isn’t wearing a sweater at all. Instead she wears a crop top that shows off a sliver of her belly, right above the black and white striped leggings that she almost certainly stole from the set of Tim Burton’s Beetlejuice.
It’s nine degrees Fahrenheit. Snow sits partially banked on the grass across the street.
Beetlejuice and her buddies remain at the back of the line when another girl struts by, crown atop her curled hair and a sash that glitters “I’m 21!” across her teal tank top. She trips, but her two companions catch her before she eats the pavement. The trio bursts into giggles and then walks into the club.
“I don’t get it,” says Diamond Earrings. “They get to go in so quick, but we’re standing here. Why does it take so damn long to let people in?”
“Five dollar bottomless drinks,” Beetlejuice reminds him.
The group has moved forward a few feet. They are standing beside the entrance to Jimmy John’s, but they are no longer holding up the end of the line. Now two girls stand behind them. One has a lollipop in her mouth, and her metallic miniskirt can’t cover the goose bumps on her otherwise bare legs. Her friend tries to avoid this fate by wearing socks that reach her knees. She, too, is wearing a miniskirt.
“My ears are freezing,” says Lollipop, covering her ears with her hands.
“My nose is freezing,” says Knee-High Socks.
In front of her, Beetlejuice sways back and forth.
“I can’t feel my toes.”
A truck stops on the opposite side of Broadway, holding up traffic.
“Drew!” shout the four men who are stuffed in the front seat of the truck.
“Drew!” shout the three men who are sitting in the bed of the truck.
Drew, who is now at the back of the Roxy’s line, holds the door of Jimmy John’s halfway open.
“Ten seconds!” he shouts back.
“Drew, you have got to be fucking kidding!”
Drew leans back in frustration, and then bounds across the street. He jumps into the bed of the truck and joins his friends.
Beetlejuice and Cardigan Girls have barely moved, but now they’ve all assumed the same position: arms crossed, legs rocking back and forth. They watch as the truck speeds away, a sandwichless Drew along with it.
A girl from the front of the line leaves, stomping down the sidewalk. She’s wearing a peplum tank top with nothing to cover her arms, and she’s angry.
“He said we should probably go to another bar,” she informs the rest of the line. “The bouncer did. They’re, like, full or something.”
Some follow her lead and give up on Roxy’s. Beetlejuice, Diamond Earrings and Cardigan Girls take advantage of the thinning line and move forward.
Lollipop turns to Knee-High Socks.
“If I am not inside in ten minutes, we are leaving. Deal? Deal,” she says, having the courtesy to answer for her friend.
Approximately thirty seconds later, Lollipop and Knee-High Socks cross Broadway in the middle of the road, just missing a car that whizzes by. The girls are a whole twenty feet from the crosswalk, after all.
Beetlejuice and her girl friends are now hunched over in full Quasimodo form. Diamond Earrings doesn’t seem quite as bothered, although he’s now put his hands in the pockets of his heavy coat.
Diamond Earrings, Beetlejuice and Cardigan Girls are at the front of the line. They’re shivering, and their teeth chatter. But finally, the Holy Grail: five dollar bottomless drinks.