Despite Galluch’s intermittent attempts to clear it out, the elevated DJ booth was the de facto VIP room and, as such, was packed with friends and friends of friends.
Toubin frantically shuffled through his records, holding 45s in his mouth as he searched for the perfect song to get the floor going. “We’re fucking around right now,” he said. “I just got back from Princeton. Have you seen Animal House? I got asked for ‘Shout’ like three times.” No shit.
“Instead of fast, it should be greezy,” Toubin continued. What? “Watch this. Now that’s greezy. Feel the difference? People are more likely to mate to this.” Was he glad to be back at (fuck it) The Shank? “I’m happy that late-night parties with good music are happening again in Brooklyn.”
Even Galluch had caught the holiday spirit, trading in his last-days-of-The-Shank-era permascowl for something resembling good cheer. “It’s like the early days of The Shank,” he remarked as he surveyed the sea of hats and scarves (and one guy in a pig costume). “There’s no drama; we’re making money; everything’s fine. Next time we’ll rent Port-o- Potties,” he added, gesturing towards the semiprivate men’s piss trough in the corner. But where was his partner in nocturnal living, Miles Engel? “Miles moved back to Baltimore today,” he sighed. “Personal problems.
He was bummed he couldn’t make it.
Galluch was nonetheless optimistic about running the parties without him. “Not getting too big for our britches is gonna help us succeed this time,” he theorized. “I learned from The Shank not to get ahead of myself. It could end tomorrow.”
