By Ashley Zimmerman
By Dana Krangel
By John Hood
By Ashley Zimmerman
By David Von Bader
By Sayre Berman
By Steve Brennan
By Ashley Zimmerman
I'd been wandering around America's Backyard for a while. I was misdirected twice by bartenders and nearly knocked out by some unwieldy dancing college kids; I'd been tempted with alcohol and distracted by gorgeous women dancing on the bar. Yet I was determined to find the Green Room, a sexy new hot spot based on the South Beach club-within-a-club concept. Supposedly, it was someplace inside America's Backyard, but I was losing hope.
By the time I'd wandered up a flight of stairs, lost my companion twice, and finally found an open spot at a bar, I was about to give up. But then I glimpsed a small back door that could have easily led into the recesses of a janitor's closet. Except it was labeled "Green Room." Half expecting to find mops and Clorox, I pushed open the door and walked down the dark corridor and into the sexiest speakeasy ever.
The room itself was bathed in an eerie effulgence produced entirely by fluttering green strobe lights. Pockets of people sat closely together on scores of immaculate white couches; pop hits boomed from the DJ's booth; chandeliers dripped with glittering glass.
While spots of green light danced across white curtains that hung from the ceilings, I moved to the railing and peered down onto the first-story floor, noticing that I was in excellent range for cleavage-peeping. Broad-shouldered "hosts" (too classy to be bouncers, according to the manager) mingled with the short-skirted patrons. Women sipped martinis at the candlelit tables, their eyes on the dance floor. A thin, good-looking black man with a Mohawk and a voluptuous girl in heels and a red tube top were dancing an amazing duet to BOB's "Airplanes." "Can we pretend that airplanes in the night sky are shooting stars? I could really use a wish right now..." In contrast, a guy with a sweatshirt and shaved head stood alone against one of the alabaster walls. His emphatic dance motions included pulling on his sleeves while swaying.
Eddie, a slight gentleman with a shaved head, was the Green Room's boss man, so I chatted him up and attempted to charm him. "We cater to women here," he said, explaining that the drink menu boasted fancy fruity martinis in attempts to distance itself from the pool-party aesthetic and trash-can-punch-style partying of America's Backyard. "The Green Room is for when they get sick of all the spring-breaking going on in America's Backyard."
"Why'd you call it the Green Room?" I blurted. "Why not red room or blue room or — "
My drinking partner, Beard, slapped his forehead.
"A green room is the spot a band hangs out in after a show," Eddie explained. "So, after a band plays at Revolution Live..."
"I see," I said. "They can party here."
"Exactly," he said. "We've tried to make it a hole in the wall; we've dubbed it America's Backyard's 'dirty little secret.' Recently, we conducted surveys and found that the typical person averages three drinks a night at three different clubs. A drink at America's Backyard and we've got one of your drinks. Your second drink at the Green Room and we've got your second drink of the night."
"Sneaky," I said. Hell, Green Room can have all three of my damned drinks.
"The drinks are the same prices at America's Backyard, but our dress code is way more strict," Eddie continued. "Also, with bottle service, we serve sushi; and at last call, we serve chocolate-covered Oreos."
After he said this, I found I was either salivating or else my chin had moistened itself.
"How about a drink?" he asked, whipping behind the granite-topped bar and rolling up his sleeves. "What would you like?"
"Hey, you're the one who caters to women," I said. I told him to surprise me.
While I waited for my mystery drink, my pal Beard kicked me and pointed through the mirror behind the bar. Then I realized it wasn't actually a mirror — rather, it was a window portal that revealed a small room on the other side of the wall.
In that room were two long couches with an elevated platform between them and two stripper poles sprouting from the platform. Two girls — patrons, not paid strippers — were sliding, writhing, and generally becoming very friendly with the poles. Their boyfriends — both hefty, burly dudes — watched hungrily. The dark-skinned woman in the flower skirt was dragging a cigarette and shook her ass for only about two seconds at a time before becoming disinterested. The other girl, a petite blond in supershort jean shorts, was humping the hell out of that pole.
"Now he's groping her," Beard narrated, staring at the blond. She was still on the pole, but her boyfriend had initiated an intense make-out session, during which she seamlessly continued making passionate love to the pole.
"My goodness, how do you get anything done with that going on right behind you?" I asked Kayla, the beautiful, petite bartender. She had a beauty mark, a piercing, crimped hair, and a smooth, heart-shaped face.
"I just check to make sure no one's breaking their neck," she said. Eddie pushed a green (and potent) drink my way. "It's our take on the classic apple martini," he said. "We call it Eve's Apple Martini because it has something a little extra — Eve's dirty little secret."