The Middle East

Here is the fifth in a series of settings from the novel Silverman: The Middle East, a nightclub in Cambridge, MA.

The first time I went to the Middle East was with my friend Carl. He always knew the best places to go. He curated his experience to the bejesus. Which is good, because he didn't live long. But that is another story. 

In this one, he's hip, he's alive, he's wearing his red fez. We are at upstairs at the Middle East, twenty-one years old, and everything is cool. 

Other friends came along. New friends, who played in bands all over town. The Paradise was my favorite place to see them play, but the Middle East had its own particular vibe, with the purple storefront, the yellow awning, the creaking wooden floors, and the long stairs down to the larger stage below. I can't tell you how many sweaty nights I stood there, smoking like a chimney, drinking from a flask, dancing once I had lost my inhibitions. Inevitably, I'd have to pee, and end up hovering over a filthy toilet, holding my breath against the smell of piss, staring at the band stickers covering every available inch of wall.

For Ben, the Middle East was “their first real venue, the one that told them they had something.” It was the beginning of something for me, too—a certain kind of life, unlike the one I'd had before.