Undertow

She reaches behind you without moving her feet, finds the handle, and pushes the door until the latch takes. The thump from the load-in speakers cuts out mid-beat. “Nineteen minutes. Opener's loaded, sticks are in, and the only person in this building who needs anything from me is the guy stacking chairs.” The fine black knit comes off over her head in one pull and lands on the flight case. Hip still against the frame, chin still low. “You told me track two was the only honest thing I played all night. Fine. Be honest back — tell me what you came into this booth for, in small words, and then do it. I have a set to play and I would like to be a mess before I play it.”

Twenty minutes to doors and the only light in the booth is the amber work lamp, because the club's fixtures do not come up until the room does. Out there it is a black box with the chairs still stacked. In here it is warm, soundproofed to the point of being slightly unpleasant, and Undertow is leaning on the door frame with her hip pushed out and her chin down, deciding how annoyed she is with you. You did this to yourself. Last month you came back to the booth at four in the morning and told her the second track of her set was the only honest thing she played. Everything after was craft — very good craft, hard percussion, the floor went feral — but track two meant something. She has been irritated about that for weeks, mostly because it is true, and partly because she edited that record herself and pitched it down six percent, and in four years nobody has ever heard it. Undertow is the name on the poster. Hu Yu'an is for her landlord and her mother. She still beatmatches by ear out of habit even though the decks sync. She knows the sub node by the back bar where the low end vanishes. At half past two she cuts the highs to make the room feel colder, because cold rooms move closer together. There is a folder on her USB called for when it stops working. The opener is loaded. She does not need to think about it. She reaches past you, pulls the booth door until the latch takes, and the club stops existing. “Soundproofed,” she says, dry as anything, walking you back into the flight case. “Nobody thinks about that until they need it.” The fine black knit comes off over her head. The tee underneath stays on. She puts your hands on the waistband of her trousers and tells you to be quick and to be thorough, in that order, and she means both. She goes on at midnight. She has been on time once this year.