by Harald Franzen

The master dance floor at the Limelight is in a perpetual trance. European techno rhythms penetrate every fiber of the body. Under the manorial stone arches of the nave, bodies wave through the smoke. The stroboscope turns them into robotic silhouettes, as saints look on from the lead glass windows of this decommissioned church. Far above the crowds and past the exclusive VIP lounge lies another, little-noticed dance floor about the size of an average New York living room - the "chill" lounge, one might say. It is calmer, almost empty, and dark, with only brief spots of light, reflected from a lonely disco ball, chasing each other across the floor in ever repeating circles. Two DJs stand in the corner mixing horribly diverse kinds of music in hard cuts. A young woman with hairy armpits and a headscarf dances barefoot in puddles of beer, slowly shifting her hips back and forth. An anorexic-looking teenage model has passed out in a corner while another one dances furiously hyper on ecstasy. The entire room seems to be in a surreal trance, with the exception of a dark silhouette in the exit door.

Mya stands at the center of the door, her feet set slightly apart and her hands folded behind her back. She smiles calmly, non-committed. Her dark hair is pulled straight back in a dark velvet band. She is dressed in a black business suit, cut high with a dark blouse collar pulled over the edges of the suit collar. Black pants fall over a pair of shiny black boots. She wears no earrings, only a thin gold necklace and a plain silver watch. "I'm sorry sir, this is the exit. You have to go to the other side," she says to one of the guests. Mya is the counterpart to the bouncer at the door and the party promoter at the entrance to the VIP lounge. She guards the exit door.

This is not her day-job, literally. During the week Mya, who was born in Casablanca and raised in a suburb of Stockholm, works as a lighting designer with a company in Manhattan. "A friend of mine needed a favor so I just helped out," she explains, letting two underage models in tight tank tops and bellbottom jeans through to the bathroom. She puts on a quick cold smile. Click, the hook releases. She pulls the velvet rope to the side, puts it back and lets the hook snap onto the metal pole. She folds her hands behind her back, repositions herself, and looks into the room. There it is again, the detached smile. Polite but cold.

A drunken man in a beige sweater comes up the stairs and begins to whine about his friend being inside. "This is the Exit, you have to go to the other side," she repeats politely. A drag queen in a flowery blouse, black silk vest and black leggings comes in carrying a CB radio. With his long black curly permed hair he looks a little like an Italian housewife from Staten Island out for a night on the town. He passes through. He works here.

Who gets to go in and who doesn't? "It has nothing to do with how you dress or how cool you are. If you have a promoter, you get in. "Party promoters organize these events, rent the facilities and the entertainment, advertise the event and get the money that is left in the end. They send out invitations to people they want to attract to the party. Those people will call in and have their name put on a guest list. If you are on the right guest list and schmooze the promoter a little, you might be among the chosen ones to get past Mya, even through the wrong door. "I get attitude from customers who don't get in sometimes, but I just give it back."

It is three o'clock in the morning now and people in the lounge are beginning to wind down. "It's okay that you ask me questions, but you should have started earlier." Mya is getting tired as well. She has been standing here since 10 p.m. "It's kind of an annoying job at times, and yes, it is boring," she admits.

A muscular young African-American man comes up to her. One of his eyes is covered by a patch, strapped over his short blond hair. His loose satin shirt is unbuttoned, revealing perfectly trained abs and several tattoos. His hands are covered with rings. David is one of the party promoters. He puts his arm around Mya, but she pushes him away with a friendly but determined smile. They talk for a few minutes before he begins to tour the room with his clipboard, collecting new names for his mailing list. While people eagerly scribble down their addresses he dances around in the middle of the now completely deserted little dance-floor.

"Mike told me to go in this way," explains a Kennedy-catcher, dressed in all black. "I don't know who Mike is," responds Mya. "I'm sorry, you'll have to go in the other way."

It is 3:20 a.m. now. A Jamaican man in his mid-forties comes across the room, takes Mya's arm and begins to dance with her across the velvet rope. She smiles feebly and goes along for a moment. At 3:40 she has unbuttoned her jacket, revealing a toned bare belly. She has lit a cigarette and is dancing in the doorway. At 3:50 the gate is open. Mya is getting her coat.