There’s always fun and the unexpected when my girls and I get together. We decided to visit DC again. The last time we were there it was President Obama’s inauguration. We did everything, from joyriding with strangers near Club Love to defending my southern twang from the back of a police car–all while managing to visit the historic Fortitude on Howard’s campus, saunter down U Street, attend a party and get a pretty close look at the Prez taking his oath. Little did we know while visiting, one of us would be moving there just a few months later.
That brings me to now. Homegirl became apart of the Homeowner’s Club in Maryland, so a visit was in order. Consider this Part I of my Labor Day getaway to DC.
Our entire weekend was planned from the time we stepped off the plane to the time we boarded. The first night would include dinner at The Park, clubbing at the K Lounge, followed by the Go-Go, as suggested by her cousin, a DC native. I’m all about the Go-Go. Walk down any crowded street in the district and you’ll find guys beating the bottoms of paint buckets. It’s a go-go beat that you can’t help but dance to. If you’re not familiar, here’s an example of the crossover go-go song:
Who doesn’t like “Da Butt”? I was all in. Leaving The Park, we engaged in random conversation with the doormen/valet guys, who were all dressed in Lifeguard shirts and khaki shorts (still trying to figure that out). “So, where are you ladies going now?”
“We’re supposed to go to a go-go tonight, somewhere in Maryland.”
The guys looked us over, then back at each other. “Wait, you are going to a go-go? Who’s doing it? You said it’s in Maryland? What part?”
What’s the big deal?
“You ladies don’t look like the go-go type. Look at how you’re dressed! You have on dresses and heels, when you really need jeans and sneakers. Ya’ll are not prepared.”
The tall guy jumps in. “—-Unless you’re going to a Chuck Brown go-go. That’s for the grown folks. You can two-step all night. You’ll enjoy it.”
Cool. We took our chances and drove to Maryland.
The closer we got to the venue, we saw it was packed. Cars were everywhere, but we didn’t see anyone….until we pulled into an alternate parking lot. Have you examined your surroundings and instantly knew you weren’t supposed to be there?
It became crystal clear that we were out of our element. Rather than get in the mile-long line for admission, we stood back and people watched for a while. I saw people young and old(er), mostly women, dressed in boots (it was 80 degrees atleast. Maybe it’s a regional thing), cigarettes in hand, mangled weave and yes, even a few pairs of “church shoes”. Nothing but obscenities flew from their mouths about having to pay $40 for the “fake-a** VIP line,” as one girl described it. I failed to mention the suspect number of police cars already parked in the lot. The go-go didn’t start until 11:30 p.m. It was 11 p.m.
My girls and I looked down at our stilettos, cutesy dresses and handbags and decided to sit this one out. But before we left, I just had to know what the go-go was really like. The self-proclaimed spokesperson of the group (I’ll talk to anyone.), I approached the group of policemen. They looked so excited about their night ahead. One was leaning on the car, while another was popping sunflower seeds in his mouth.
“Excuse me, officer. We were about to go in, but things don’t look too favorable….We’re from out-of-town. What’s goes on here exactly?”
“You and them wanna go in there?” He laughed. “Why? Look around. It’s obvious this isn’t where you need to be.”
We scanned the crowd. He was undeniably right. So were the guys at The Park.
“First off, you all speak King’s English. You’re dressed nice. You’re not, you know, ghetto.”
He went on, “You see, by the time 2 a.m. comes around, we will have broken up atleast five fights. These people over in the “$20 line” don’t know it, but they’ll never get in. This entire lot will be filled with police cars. It’s all typical at a go-go. I wouldn’t advise it.”
His sunflower seed-popping partner gave us a “that sucks for you” look and nodded in agreement.
“You might be right, ” I said. “But I really wanted to go. It would’ve been fun.”
Suddenly, there’s commotion at the door. A tall, slender girl wearing a half-top, whom I’d just spotted in line runs out of the club, adjusting her bra because apparently it’d almost been yanked off of her. She says, “F*** that b***! She knows where I stay. Come see me!”
Following her a short chick comes out pulling her dress down. It was obvious she was Tall Girl’s opponent, and even more obvious that she lost. Tall Girl beat that ass. We’d just seen this chick. She went in the club looking like Beyonce and came out looking like Sonic the Hedgehog. Tall Girl clearly pulled every track (except three, no lie) out of her head. Bleeding and barefoot on the glass-filled pavement, she was a certified mess. Her friend, however, dressed in a long-sleeved black liquid leather dress, was flawless. I guess she didn’t jump in.
Mr. Officer heaved a deep sigh, “See what I’m sayin’? I’ll be back.” He slow bopped over to the girls. To support his argument, after about 10 minutes, he returned to report that the girl wanted to go back into the go-go after she cleaned up her bloody wounds. Really? It’s that popping in there?
No. Ma’am. We couldn’t take anymore. We said our goodbyes to the DMV’s finest and chunked the deuces. It was definitely a no-go at the go-go.
To be continued….