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HELP!

We spent maybe 4 or 5 hours dining at Sobre as Ondas, and around twenty past midnight I saw the doorman at HELP! lay out the velvet rope. I could see where everybody wanted to go, and we decided to join the scene. We had to see why this place had a reputation of ill behavior, a quick moving queue, and an English name. The club was already packed, though we had hit the doors right after opening. I recognized the staff—they were the ladies parading the Avenida all night.

We saw nothing but encouraging smiles. Just like that, we found the perfect blend of chaos, insanity, and paradise. With a slamming beat. Of course everything in Rio has a beat. Steve wondered how they could allow cameras inside with all of the travelers set up for blackmail. I headed for the kiosk to purchase drink tickets. Doug, he . . . wait a minute, where the fuck was Doug?

Doug was running—no shit, actually jogging in place, warming up his A-game. Doug speaks English only, and somehow I got stuck with translating duties, which included fetching drinks. I had plenty of laughs for a short while, yet slowly had a headache growing from the sound sensitive strobe lights and techno-latino.

Fortunately, the band kicked in with the rhythm everybody came to dig. Samba does not exactly produce a dance—more of a trance. You have to move, because you will not find a seat. I couldn’t even find space to work the wall. Fortunately, I’d already cut myself off the caipirinhas, so I had plenty of energy left for the rest of the night. Trying to figure out how to politely decline services from the freelancers, I also needed to bounce away the other tourists requesting my wisdom. Even in the bathroom, other customers sought me for advice: “How much do they charge?”

I gave no answer, since I have no idea why anyone would expect a sincere answer to any questions in the bathroom. I left, trying to remember where the rest of the guys could be. I walked to the first bar, couldn't find them. I remembered the club had maybe ten bars. I centered myself toward the stage, lost and confused, then heard my name. Doug and his service providers required more of my translating skills. I required another beer. I just pointed at my empty beer can while heading for the drink ticket booth. What do you know, I bump into Steve and Egan. We grab a round, I ask them if they've taken a visit upstairs. I suggest we find out what else HELP! offers.

Chairs, tables, and a little more air than downstairs. Give yourself a minute to chill and observe the festivities. We could see Doug down there, all right. With a trail of freelance professionals haggling over his time. Plenty of dudes with more cash, credit, and spare key-cards for 5 star hotels had to wait for a night when Doug decided to party elsewhere. I wish I made this shit up, people, but even my imagination has its limitations. Doug had chosen carneval as the place to get his game back.
I worked on my rap as the samba troupe kept the beat. Don't worry, I did not try to touch a microphone nor make any impression with my peckerwood skills. Too much heat and rhythm and soul filled this room. I wondered what else a customer could find upstairs, but I saw nothing. No hidden doors nor stairwells popped into view; then again, that may only be open to a special market segment. If this were truly a brothel, I assumed they knew how to let the girls bring the punters through a separate door. Like the front door of a luxury hotel (foreshadowing? . . .stay tuned . . .).

Time came for the club to close. Only understood this when the band quit playing for the first time in five hours. Egan mentioned how in samba, when the band has 10 drummers, 10 horn players, and 10 singers, they can rotate their breaks while keeping the beat. No need to punch out for fifteen minutes, nor wait for the lunch whistle. And the dancers on the floor simply kept on dancing as the doors opened for all to exit. At this point, many of professionals wore nothing but glitter and pumps. Of course, they cannot get their feet dirty and sticky—so unprofessional and uncivilized.

Right across the street, a dj spins, more drummers drum, people dance, and the sun rises over the ocean, na praia de Copacabana. Egan said the sunrise looked pearl white, and went to grab some beers. I said it looked a little too bright, and went to the bazaar to buy some sunglasses. Doug said the sunrise had a touch of pink, and wondered why his entourage left him for a bigger payday. Steve said it looked like a sunrise, and went back to the apartment to crash.
A couple beers later, and a few more samba shuffles, we finally introduced ourselves to Sabrina, the mesera taking care of us all week at the same baizhirinha. Asked if she worked again the next day, she said she worked every day. We said we'd see her again, after the samba parade.

posted by Gabacho Chingón @ 2:47 PM