Early morning, Louis Tomlinson walks on the rooftop of his apartment building and rubs his neck.
At about 9 p.m., he greets his friends with hugs and handshakes on the sidewalk. They walk together, filming each other on their phones and talking. They stop at a private club. The bartender serves them beer at least three times. Tomlinson stands alone in the center of the club. Slate, slanted booths are on each side of him, tables cleared of $200 pens and missing cufflinks.
Carrying a glass, he and his friends walk into an art deco club. Lit in a golden lavender, he takes some champagne glasses off the tables and hands them to his friends. He taps on his phone and his friend asks him if he’s okay. His friend sets the glass on a pure white fragile cube. White balloons fall from the ceiling and they flick them towards one another. He stands alone near the white fragile cube, some stray half-filled balloons at his feet.
On the street, a friend points to another bar. A second friend takes away his phone. They enter a neon lit club. He spreads his arms out by a hot pink palm tree and red lips. The bartender serves them and they toast. He walks under an aqua and ruby-red hallway. A friend pours a drink down his throat. He sets his drink on the table and stands alone again, hands in his pockets as the various neon signs continue to burn.
Louis Tomlinson isn’t certain they’ve been to the club. His friends point out he blacked out there once. He nods his head and checks his phone, hoping for his ex-girlfriend to send him a message.
A bartender greets him by name at the exclusive club, asking him how his conversation went with the producer he ran into there a week ago. He mumbles that it went great and chugs his drink. There was a crumpled up paper in his pants, the ink smudged. He figured it was some random girl’s number and threw it away.
The art deco celebrated its one-year anniversary. A bartender points to him in one of the framed photos. He’s raising his drink, his eyes are half-closed and one arm is around the owner. The bartender thanks him again for treating everyone However, his card is declined. The bartender says it’s all right and that it will be added to his tab. He taps his credit card app and sees the message: “Unconfirmed charges. Your account is locked.” He excuses himself and calls the number on the back of his card.
At the neon-lit bar, no one knows who he is and those who do, don’t care. His vision blurs amid the lights and sways to the out of the date music. He cheers during the contest and several drinks later, competes in one. However, losing the butt shaking competition plummets his self-esteem further. The bar closes and the bartender helps him find the Lyft app on his phone. He slurs a “thank you” and leaves.
Director: N/A Year: 2017
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