The Marigold Club

The slowly cascading late-afternoon sun blasted through the office windows. Up here on the 24th floor the view truly was breathtaking. The clock was ticking. 3pm. 4pm. 4.30pm. 4.45pm. 4.55. 4.57.4.58...5pm. Finally. The usual rumbling of desk chairs begins, as they are slid out from underneath their occupants backsides, followed by the slamming of drawers, the hustle like rummaging of bags and coats, and the quickened footsteps of people evacuating the premises in their haste to begin the weekend.

Cliff quickly followed suit. He grabbed his few possessions from his poxy little desk space, mumbled a quiet goodbye to the other office drones that were even slower to leave, hastily headed down the lift to the lobby and out the front doors, practically charging into what was left of the day’s glorious sunshine.

Cliff had worked at the monster conglomerate, SHJ Asset Management for little over a year now. He was an Office Administrator. A job that he very quickly learned sounded far more interesting than it eventually transpired to be. Standing at a painfully average height of 5ft10, his medium sized build and deep, hazel eyes made him a rather forgetful character. He was ok looking, just like the other 90% of the population, and didn’t follow the latest trends or the hipster ‘fuck-boy’ attire, so easily donned by other males his age. He was almost completely normal, were it not for his glorious, brown, curly perm that sat on top of his head.

Cliff hated his job. The mundanity of the rat race that chained him to his chair for 8 hrs a day, almost, broke his soul. The internal sadness and oppression he obtained from it, was darkening. A force strong enough to turn even the happiest and cheeriest of folk into gloomy, empty shells of their former selves. Every minute he was there, he longed to be elsewhere. Except, that is, for the few beautiful weeks that he fell madly, truly, deeply in love with Alison from Level 25. But, alas, that had been months ago, and the eager anticipation of bumping into her on his lunch breaks had long since dissipated. He’d concluded she was married, or dating a stock broker or something exciting like that.

Cliff had a very powerful weapon in his arsenal though; to combat the depression of the unending hamster wheel. Every Friday, just as he felt he was about to go crazy with a pen and start stabbing at his own eyes, the working week ended, and he could finally transform into who he really was. A release. An unveiling of his super alter-ego…The Boogie King. And that is exactly what he was on his way to do right now.

After almost dancing his way home to the sound of Stevie Wonder’s ‘Superstition’ blaring through his cheap, fake earpods, Cliff entered his ground floor apartment building. Small and simple, it was. For now at least, this was the way Cliff wanted it. He didn’t enjoy many material items, and he lived, heart and soul, for his weekends. He reached into the fridge, cracked a beer and clicked his speaker on. Cliff’s phone magically bluetoothed to it, and within a split second the entire apartment was filled with some of his favourite, funky-disco tunes.

He bobbed around and practiced a few dance moves, as he rifled through his wardrobe. The more he let his hips go, the more he felt the music, and the more the excitement grew within him for the night ahead.

Finally, he landed on a pair of rust coloured bell-bottoms he’d managed to scavenge from a vintage clothes store a few months back. They sat high on his waist and tapered down to the knee, before descending down the shin and flaring out magnificilty. They truly were a thing of disco beauty. He coupled this with a jazzy, slim fitting 70’s shirt. The oversized collar exaggerated his jaw line, and the tightness of the garment made even him look a little buff. All of this coupled with his messy, crimped perm made him look like he’d fallen through a time machine. He looked funky-fresh; a John Travolta type, done up to the nines. He simply oozed cool.

He eyed himself in the mirror that clung to the front of the wardrobe. He could do nothing to stop the huge smile that spread from ear to ear.

He cracked another beer.

The sun had just about set when Cliff left his ground-floor apartment. He ordered an Uber for the short journey, impatient to arrive. Just 4 minutes later he was climbing out the 5-door sedan, and gazing up at the mighty, luminescent gold sign above his head:

THE MARIGOLD CLUB

That smile hadn’t left his face yet.

There was a short wait in the queue until he had paid his entry. He beamed a hurried “hello” to Garf, one of the doormen, and descended down the stairs, underground, towards the beat that ascended up from beneath. As he strutted through the purple, velvet curtains at the base of the staircase the smile on his face somehow grew even bigger. He was finally home.

He paused for a minute to take in the breathtaking scene. The room that used to be an old underground train station back in the 60’s, still boasting the original exposed brick archways and high ceilings, had been converted into an infamous underground disco club. Unknown to many, it was a hidden gem within the city centre. Void of all Google searches and Facebook tags, the Marigold Club was a beautiful, mysterious enigma that had to be known to be found.

The bar ran the entire length of the venue, with hundreds of cocktail glasses, beer fridges, bottles and beverages twinkling in the illumination of the giant ‘BAR’ neon sign that overlooked the 20 or so bar staff, hard at work and wearing their usual waistcoat and dickie-bow combo.

The dancefloor encompassed the entire surface area of the vivid, patchwork-coloured, LED flooring. The entirety of the place was the dancefloor, there was no distinguished space. Every 10 metres or so stood a platform, each one supporting any particularly keen dancers that wanted to strut their stuff to the audience below.

Then there were the people themselves. They came from all walks of life; policemen, teachers, IT consultants and estate agents. They were of all different ages; early twenties all the way through to the grandma and grandads. The variety was vast, but people’s reasoning for being there was all the same. The Marigold Club was a shrine. A safe haven. A worshipping ground, for anything and everything disco. The air smelt of funkalisciousness, the groove was in the air and the people were busting out their shapes, completely losing themselves to the boogie.

Right above them, looking down at the glorious scene below, stood a 25ft tall, gigantic gold-plated Marigold Flower. The face of God, enjoying the show.

Cliff took a deep breath, and glided his way to the middle of the dancefloor. The Marigold Club was absolutely bouncing that night, and there was the usual vibe of blissful delight in the air. As he passed through the crowd, he began to feel the music surge through his veins. His heart started to pulse to the beat and his hips started to find their instinctive flow. He was soon in the middle of the floor, and the funk in his soul had truly awoken. He allowed the rhythm of the music to take over, seducing his body as he succumbed to its power.

Cliff was no stranger to the Marigold. He’d been coming here weekly since he’d miraculously stumbled across it on his 20th birthday. He had become completely awe-struck by the place in the first moment that he’d pulled back that purple, velvet curtain. He’d heard of places such as Studio 54 and Wigan Casino, but had given in to the idea that these 70’s clubs had all but disappeared to make way for the regular top of the charts drivel played by the majority of mainstream DJs and regular run-of-the-mill establishments. But not this one, this one was still very much alive and kicking, and It never ceased to amaze him.

Funky disco boogie music boomed out over the speaker system. The entire audience was receptive to every beat, every drop; like a swarm of doves ‘slippedy-sliding’ and ‘shuck jiving’ through the sky. The room held the pulse as everyone fed their funky souls.

By now, Cliff’s boogie was in full flow. He’d become the Boogie King once more. His moves were seamless, his spins effortless. His bell-bottomed, rust flares swished to track his leg movements, and his retro shirt clung to his sweating torso as he night-fevered his way through the evening. His reality slowed down, he blacked out, his mind was calm, his body pumping. The groove was now intoxicating him as he simply drowned himself in the pleasure of disco. Cliff was no longer dancing. He had simply become it. He was dance.

This was the euphoric moment that called Cliff back to The Marigold Club, week in week out. The release from the mundane. A complete outer body experience of expression that enveloped him in incredible joy. It was the reason he worked in his miserable job, and why he didn't mind living in his simplistic apartment. It was all worth the sacrifice to be here. Once Cliff found this feeling of dance perfection utterly immersing him, time ceased to exist. He would dance, spin, twirl, kick, and get down in the groove for hours.

Suddenly, the lights are turned on. Their powerful rays flood the venue, exposing everyone in all their beauty. The music quietens. 3am. People start coming round from their dance-trance and migrate to the door, each one following the mass of glowing individuals as they chit-chat and laugh their way back through the purple, velvet curtain. The exuberant satisfaction fills the night air as the boogiers spill out of the front door, say their drawn out goodbyes to one another, and start to venture back to their own realities.

Cliff decides to walk home, as always. This time next week he knows he’ll be back, in the exact same place. Still smiling.