The Basement Kids

  Oh hey –

Every day that I spend in school, I either find myself reminiscing about the past weekend or praying for the next Friday night to come. I know that I’m not the only one who comes one stop short of salivating over the idea of a Saturday night. So today, to help you all get over the hellscape that is Tuesday, I’m going to give you an in-depth exposé into my past weekend. It was crazier than most, which is saying a lot. For those of you who are wondering, yes, even crazier than that weekend where I got a tattoo. 

Allow me to set the scene. I’m in Brooklyn, Crown Heights to be exact, and it’s 10pm. You can’t see the stars and it’s 60 degrees outside. I’m wearing an Indian headdress and a slightly terrified face as I tentatively approach a building with a bunch of teenagers standing outside.  

I’m offered a cigarette and an X is drawn on my hand as the doors to the party I’m  attending are pulled open for me. The doors are in the ground. They’re the ones that you see on the street and act as basements for restaurants and other commercial buildings. This is where the party is. 

Descending the steps is a feat in and of itself. They’re steep and sticky with Hennesy. The first thing I see when I enter the space is something out of a documentary about teenage angst. I’m not joking. There are people sitting and standing along the walls, smoking, kissing, laughing, tripping. The lights were scarce and cast a glow that covered everyone. It didn’t look like real life.

I was meeting my friend Lily there, and had to walk down numerous hallways to get to the VIP room, where she had told me to meet her. On my way there I passed what I would later learn are some of the coolest kids the city has to offer. 

Before I could go in to see Lily I had to show off my hand to the guy at the door. The sharpie X was my key. Among opening the half broken edifice, I was assaulted with the most suffocating amount of smoke I have ever been in the presence of. These kids were taking hot boxing to a whole ‘nother level. 

Stumbling in, I searched for Lily’s blonde head. I found her, among a myriad of other blonde girls, each of whom was sitting on a different boy’s lap. They were rolling. I was coughing. Dragging Lily out of the room I had her introduce me to the general populous. I met the DJ, a few models, some tumblr famous kids and an entire fleet of musicians. 

Then someone asked me what I do. That took me back. What do I do? First thing that came out of my mouth was, “I’m a writer.”

“Oh really?” They said.

“Really,” I replied, “and I’m going to write about all of you.”

It would be a waste not to write about these people. But I can’t properly encompass all that they are with words. I think there are some things that need to be felt. You have to feel these kids. You have to immerse yourself in their world. You have to go outside, Princeton. Go somewhere, meet someone new. 

We went outside, climbing out from the hazy darkness into a starless, humid night. Here, the police were everywhere. Not near us though, it was like we were invisible. These teenagers, with bottles of Hennesy, wearing amazing clothes and chain smoking their worries away, were non existent. I stood next to their sign marking the entrance of the party. It read: DARQ BOYZ ENTERTAINMNET 

That’s where I was this weekend. With the DARQ BOYZ. Being invisible and way cooler than I actually am. I was in a basement and I saw someone do cocaine using a gift card from panera. I rode the subway until I couldn’t tell which way the train was going. I walked through gentrified Brooklyn, one foot in the projects and the other on project runway.

People always ask me about my weekends, so here ya go. If you get anything from this, let it be that what we have in Princeton right now is not real life. I don’t think the DARQ BOYZ are either, but what’s the harm in hopping from fantasy to fantasy? Especially when this one is getting old. How many times can you hang out in the same old basement? 

I don’t know. But trust me, there are better basements to be in.

Until next time,

– Jamaica ☆


5 thoughts on “The Basement Kids

  1. In the picture above, you are wearing an “indian” headdress. This, incase you did not know, is culture appropriation (that is if you don’t even know what it stands for, and are only wearing it because you got it from urban outfitters, with no clue to what it stands for).


    1. Thank you, I am aware of cultural appropriation. Luckily for both of us, this headdress was a gift from India, making it Indian not “indian.” I appreciate your concern for cultural respect, and I truly hope that you commented to bring awareness to the problem of cultural appropriation and not in a futile attempt to be belligerent. And for the record, I don’t shop at Urban.


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