If you told 12-year-old me that I would be co-hosting and promoting a penthouse party in Manhattan during the summertime, she would think I was extremely cool. If you told her that I would get kicked out for bringing too many people, she would think I was even cooler.
My friend Lauren had been staying in the penthouse for a few weeks while she was in between apartments. It wasn’t hers, but she knew the man who owned it, and he was letting her stay in it while he was out of town. I’d been in the penthouse a few times prior to the party because that’s where we’d been working on our screenplay together. Every time the elevator doors opened at the top floor and I stepped out into the penthouse, I was in utter awe of the place. The shock never wore off. In fact, somehow I seemed to be in greater shock each time. I tried to imagine living a life like this. This amount of wealth was unfathomable to me. I came to the conclusion that it was so disgustingly large, modern, well put-together and perfectly-maintained, that I would actually feel lonely living there alone. Lauren told me the owner was in the butter business. Is that some sort of euphemism for some illegal sexual business? Or does he use this butter business as a money laundering front? I wondered because I found it hard to believe that working in the buttery industry could lead you to afford a $6 million penthouse. Then again, everything I know about finance I learned from watching Ozark—which, I suppose, could be why my mind wandered to those possible illegal explanations. “No, he literally just owns butter factories”, Lauren told me. It’s safe to say that if all else fails, I’ll be investing in a dairy cow or a thousand (just kidding—I’m vegan).
Lauren told me she was thinking about throwing a party, since she only had a few days left in the penthouse and asked if I’d be down to promote it. Of course, I said yes.
After I did my fair share of promoting and Lauren did her fair share of purchasing alcohol, food, and setting up, we were ready to kiki.
I showed up to the party wearing my typical amount of clothes—or lack thereof. I was wearing a denim bra top and a black mini skirt. I showed up early (when nobody other than Lauren was there), so I could be there when my friends started showing up. Slowly but surely did they start showing up.
(Lauren setting up…calm before the storm. Please note that this one photo of this one part of the penthouse doesn’t nearly do it justice.)
My friend Abby was one of the first to show up. She showed up with some sort of top shelf liquor—-I believe it was Absolut. My friend Jade showed up with his camera and began taking photos of everyone. My long-time internet friend Dani even showed up because she was visiting from California and wanted a Leg5 going out experience. Safe to say she wanted to move to New York after that night. People brought food and more drinks, adding to Lauren’s pre-existing array. Some people showed up, claiming they knew me and that I invited them. I had never met them before. We were about to go all Gatsby in that [redacted]—with a different ending, of course (although it would still be tragic in many ways). Soon enough, the penthouse was full of partygoers, and I brought some of them up to the roof. As a writer, it’s my job to find the words, but I am still searching for the right ones to properly capture the sensation I felt standing on that penthouse rooftop, overlooking the Manhattan skyline in the summer, surrounded by my friends, holding champagne in my hand with music playing in the background. Imagine a painter running out of colors for the image they want to paint or a filmmaker running out of film when they still have part of the story to tell. Imagine a musician running out of chords or lyrics while trying to describe a heartbreak they just went through. That’s how I feel, grasping for the right words to encapsulate the sensation I felt in that moment, standing on that rooftop. I can still see the skyline—Manhattan’s dotted complexion during hours where only sinners were still awake, reminded of if midnight had acne. When I was on the roof, I occasionally looked down through the skylight and could get a glimpse of what was going on inside the penthouse where many of the people still were.
The rooftop is where I spent most of my time at the party. I danced to music with my friends, posed while Jade took photos, drank champagne, laughed and chatted and whatnot, and took in the view. It was one of those moments so amazing you almost weren’t fully able to enjoy it because you could already anticipate the feeling of missing it the next day.
(Photos by Jade Greene—@byjadegreene on Instagram)
Eventually we went back inside and reconvened with the rest of the people who were still in the penthouse. That’s when Lauren informed me that the contractor had just told her she needed to evacuate everybody because the contractor told her we brought too many people. Life’s not easy being so popular and having so many friends. Since I brought these people, I decided it was my responsibility to find us somewhere else to go. My friend Isabel was hosting at Paul’s Casablanca and it was a short walk, so that’s where I brought everyone. I felt like a duck with all her little ducklings walking behind her, leading them to the gates of hedonism (like any good mother would). We got to Casa and said Isabel’s name at the door and the bounce let us in. Jackson Walker Lewis and Orson were DJing, which is how you know it was popping. I ran into a bunch of my good friends at Isabel’s table that I was happy I unexpectedly got to see.
(I really love this photo I took of my friends Julia, Jeanie, and Page after running into them)
Many helped themselves to alcohol from Isabel’s table, and I, of course, continued to dance. I didn’t really get many pictures from inside, which is how you know it was fun.
(Dani and me dancing inside of Paul’s Casablanca)
I will spare some of the details for what happened the rest of the night for two reasons—in case my mother is reading this and because I can’t say I remember them all.