Marxism and Drum N Bass: Converging Paths
In the evening when the people set their feet out the door, I crossed the Bay and fell into lights. X had just been babysitting and since she owed me some money, she gave me a small percentage of her earnings. R took us down the hill, around the lake, to this Caribbean-themed bar surrounded by painted palm trees and corrugated sheet metal. The place was sparsely populated and for the short time that we were there I watched the people facing the DJ booth moving to their own rhythms, in spite of the bass that enveloped us. When it came time to purchase a drink I understood the ghostly role that money plays in our consciousness.
I started the night with six dollars. After purchasing a large Tsingtao at a Chinese restaurant in the Mission, I had no money. I borrowed a dollar or two for an ice cream cone later on. When I crossed the Bay I had no money in my pocket, save for that tricky thing that's hard to categorize, the Debit card--often times it's as good as money, others it's completely devoid of value. By a turn events, as I mentioned, when I arrived at my destination I came into the possession of a twenty dollar bill, whose value, if you're used to carrying around a wad of twenties, feels physically equivalent to one dollar. So it was that we arrived at that Caribbean-themed bar and we were swallowed whole by drum 'n bass music. The bar charged five dollars entry fee, and perhaps out of a sense of guilt, R paid for both X and me: a total cost of fifteen dollars. I recognized the gesture and as we approached the bar I ordered a gin and tonic, which R and X ordered as well, and handed the barkeep the twenty dollar bill I had just come into possession of. The other two proceeded to dig through their respective purses and wallets and produce the five dollars that their drink cost, but I waved both bills off. Now R's gesture of paying for our entry into the bar had been recognized, returned, and arguably negated by my purchasing of the two drinks. It is American custom of course to tip, and since I tend to tip well, being in the tip-industry, this reduced the single twenty dollar bill first to five one dollar bills, and then to three as I laid out two bills on the drink-stained counter top: a sixty-seven cent appreciation per gin and tonic. The waving off of the five owed dollar bills was met with gratitude and uncertainty, including statements such as "Thank you" and "Are you sure?" These statements blanketed a tacit agreement that the purchase was my obligation in return for the favor of paying the cover charge. And although my gesture was met with a bit of uncertainty--whether out of concern for my lack of twenty dollar bills or perhaps as a suggestion that I didn't owe anyone anything--I personally felt as though I lost nothing. Perhaps because the twenty dollar bill came into my possession so easily, trading it for cocktails felt almost negligible, or, as they say, "Easy come, easy go." Had the twenty dollar bill been hard-earned, I might have thought twice about buying the drinks. Although if that was the case then the bill would have had friends, and I wouldn't mind losing it either.
As we imbibed the gin and tonics, I started to think about the lightness of money, how easily it is gained and lost. In this instance the twenty dollar bill almost felt inconsequential; in some other reality might I have not been simply paid in gin and tonics? Cut the "middle-man" out, so to speak. And yet not everyone prefers to drink gin and tonics, others like wine or beer or Campari and sodas. So in fact the money is necessary as a kind of pivot point to aim earnings, or work, at an infinite amount of goods. Meanwhile, now that I had made one purchase for each member in my party, since I'm not exactly on the greatest of financial terms, my sense of duty to purchase others' drinks had disappeared. In any case, I only had three dollars left, which is more or less worthless in a bar setting. We left after finishing the gin and tonics and we walked down the street to a more populated bar, featuring a dark interior and a wall of rustic stones that reminded me of the outdated decor of 1960's Californian chalets. It was so dark and crowded in there that I wondered if a normal living room could be turned into a bar simply by filling it with people and turning the lights off. Of course the customers would be searching for the place to buy alcohol, but if it was dark enough and they came drunk enough, they might not know the difference. R became despondent, and after a while, the void of despair was filled with delirious happiness and she offered to buy us drinks for the rest of the night, handing the bartender her Debit card and instructing him to "keep it open," which in bar terminology, suggests a potentially infinite amount of drinks, and very often, because there aren't the limitations that cash provides, especially when the cardholder in question becomes increasingly drunk, ends up costing more than originally intended. I, however, did not refuse the rest of my drinks to be purchased since a. the crowded bar and sisterly affection that R and X had for each other left me to myself and b. indeed, I even felt now a new sense of duty to help R get over her despair as though allowing her to spend money on beers that I alone would drink would somehow translate into her renewed good humor. So we spent and drank and were content.
I started the night with six dollars. After purchasing a large Tsingtao at a Chinese restaurant in the Mission, I had no money. I borrowed a dollar or two for an ice cream cone later on. When I crossed the Bay I had no money in my pocket, save for that tricky thing that's hard to categorize, the Debit card--often times it's as good as money, others it's completely devoid of value. By a turn events, as I mentioned, when I arrived at my destination I came into the possession of a twenty dollar bill, whose value, if you're used to carrying around a wad of twenties, feels physically equivalent to one dollar. So it was that we arrived at that Caribbean-themed bar and we were swallowed whole by drum 'n bass music. The bar charged five dollars entry fee, and perhaps out of a sense of guilt, R paid for both X and me: a total cost of fifteen dollars. I recognized the gesture and as we approached the bar I ordered a gin and tonic, which R and X ordered as well, and handed the barkeep the twenty dollar bill I had just come into possession of. The other two proceeded to dig through their respective purses and wallets and produce the five dollars that their drink cost, but I waved both bills off. Now R's gesture of paying for our entry into the bar had been recognized, returned, and arguably negated by my purchasing of the two drinks. It is American custom of course to tip, and since I tend to tip well, being in the tip-industry, this reduced the single twenty dollar bill first to five one dollar bills, and then to three as I laid out two bills on the drink-stained counter top: a sixty-seven cent appreciation per gin and tonic. The waving off of the five owed dollar bills was met with gratitude and uncertainty, including statements such as "Thank you" and "Are you sure?" These statements blanketed a tacit agreement that the purchase was my obligation in return for the favor of paying the cover charge. And although my gesture was met with a bit of uncertainty--whether out of concern for my lack of twenty dollar bills or perhaps as a suggestion that I didn't owe anyone anything--I personally felt as though I lost nothing. Perhaps because the twenty dollar bill came into my possession so easily, trading it for cocktails felt almost negligible, or, as they say, "Easy come, easy go." Had the twenty dollar bill been hard-earned, I might have thought twice about buying the drinks. Although if that was the case then the bill would have had friends, and I wouldn't mind losing it either.
As we imbibed the gin and tonics, I started to think about the lightness of money, how easily it is gained and lost. In this instance the twenty dollar bill almost felt inconsequential; in some other reality might I have not been simply paid in gin and tonics? Cut the "middle-man" out, so to speak. And yet not everyone prefers to drink gin and tonics, others like wine or beer or Campari and sodas. So in fact the money is necessary as a kind of pivot point to aim earnings, or work, at an infinite amount of goods. Meanwhile, now that I had made one purchase for each member in my party, since I'm not exactly on the greatest of financial terms, my sense of duty to purchase others' drinks had disappeared. In any case, I only had three dollars left, which is more or less worthless in a bar setting. We left after finishing the gin and tonics and we walked down the street to a more populated bar, featuring a dark interior and a wall of rustic stones that reminded me of the outdated decor of 1960's Californian chalets. It was so dark and crowded in there that I wondered if a normal living room could be turned into a bar simply by filling it with people and turning the lights off. Of course the customers would be searching for the place to buy alcohol, but if it was dark enough and they came drunk enough, they might not know the difference. R became despondent, and after a while, the void of despair was filled with delirious happiness and she offered to buy us drinks for the rest of the night, handing the bartender her Debit card and instructing him to "keep it open," which in bar terminology, suggests a potentially infinite amount of drinks, and very often, because there aren't the limitations that cash provides, especially when the cardholder in question becomes increasingly drunk, ends up costing more than originally intended. I, however, did not refuse the rest of my drinks to be purchased since a. the crowded bar and sisterly affection that R and X had for each other left me to myself and b. indeed, I even felt now a new sense of duty to help R get over her despair as though allowing her to spend money on beers that I alone would drink would somehow translate into her renewed good humor. So we spent and drank and were content.