Perchance To Dream
For the Right People, a Swank New Nightclub And an Endless Search for a Perfect Moment

By Libby Copeland
Washington Post Staff Writer
Saturday, December 8, 2001; Page C01

The skirt pretty much says it all. Short, tight and asymmetrical, fastened tenuously with tiny snaps at one hip, it says sexy and runway haute couture at the same time. It is white and made of a wool blend that looks curiously like terry cloth. She answers the door and you think for a minute it might be a towel. But then she steps back and you think, who wears four-inch red high heels with a towel? And then you think, oh, that's a skirt.

That's a skirt.

It's a skirt for Dream nightclub, which is where Anna Mackler is going tonight: a new four-floor luxury oasis of marble and mahogany in a dead zone of warehouses off New York Avenue NE.

The kind of place where -- when you're driving there -- you think, where the heck is this place? and then you get there and find the streets clogged with SUVs, and beside you is a white Mercedes stretch limo. And, if you're Anna Mackler, in a daring handmade white skirt that looks a little like a towel, you chant to yourself, "We're almost there, we're almost there," and force yourself to sit back in the passenger seat. And, against your best intentions, you pay $15 for valet parking 'cause you just can't wait; it's 12:30 and your legs are bare and fussing to groove, and you heard a rumor -- false -- that Michael Jordan might be inside.

This is a skirt for Dream. And if it's hemmed a bit high, it's no higher than your expectations.

"You walk in here and you go, this could be Miami," says Mackler, who's been to the club three times in the three weeks it's been open. "It doesn't even look like D.C."

From the outside, though, it doesn't look like much. Dream is located next door to a fleet of yellow school buses, surrounded by squat, ugly buildings. Nearby is Okie Truck Service, C&P Truck and Body Service and a fish wholesaler. During the daytime, the wind blows a pungent, sour scent -- ammonia, maybe, mingling with the odor of dead marine life.

But behind the corrugated metal garage door of Dream is a world of luxury that seems the quintessence of, say, New York, 1999. Up the broad white marble steps is the plush first floor: high ceilings, lots of wood, five bars made of sparkling green granite, cushioned stools, asymmetrical jewel-toned couches, sleek metal pendant lamps. The women wear leather and their tops are held together with strings.

From here, Dream offers varying levels of refinement, like the inverse of Dante's seven circles. No jeans or athletic wear are allowed inside. The cover charge is only $10, but a sour apple martini will run $9, and to sit at a table, you are expected to drop at least $300 on bottle service. On the second floor is a VIP lounge accessible only to people on The List. The fourth floor, which isn't finished yet, will be dedicated to private groups; there's a small party room and deck up there that will rent for $5,000, cocktail waitress included.

"The key is to make people think that, 'Oh, that's untouchable,' " says the club's owner, Marc Barnes, who is trying to cultivate an air of elite desirability. Barnes owns the successful Republic Gardens nightspot on U Street, but created Dream because he wanted something bigger for the sports figures, celebs and big spenders he hopes to attract.

"The good people got tired of being on top of each other," Barnes says.

To be one of the good people, it should be noted, you don't have to have money or fame. Mackler is studying graphic design at George Washington University. She works part time as a waitress, and when she designs her own clothes -- which is often -- she can only afford the "cheap fabric, like $2 a yard." But she is friends with one of the club's promoters, and she has the shimmery, self-assured look of someone who belongs in a place like Dream. She has the lithe frame of a model. She speaks fluent French. When she goes out, as often as six nights a week, Mackler usually heads to upscale clubs and lounges in Northwest like Ozio, Modern and Chi-Cha Lounge. She is a club girl, 21 and beautiful.

She is a club girl, searching.

Not for a phone number or a kiss. Oh, for a compliment, maybe. But more for a feeling. An evening with Mackler and her friends is a never-ending journey where the destination keeps changing. They are looking for the right drink, or the right song to dance to, or the right place to stand. And when they find what they're looking for, they want an indefinable something else -- and they circle back on themselves like a pack of wolves returning to a scent.

Prepping

It's 11:15 p.m. on a Saturday night, Mackler has just gotten off work, and the night has barely begun. Up in her bedroom, in the town house she shares with two roommates in Shaw, she's playing with her puppy, Cain. Her friend Jay Bynum, 23, is ironing going-out clothes, and when he turns to look at her, he stops short.

"That skirt. That skirt," he says. "You know what I'm saying?"

Mackler's friends start arriving. First to come are Shelly Hernandez, 23, Andrea Wright, 21, and Jenny Lamb, 24. Pretty and well appointed in black and suede, with tasteful makeup and shiny hair, they seem straight out of an MTV casting call. They take a seat on Mackler's bed, to wait for more people and make the usual pre-club chatter: the best lip gloss, the best nights at each club.

"I used to know the hot night everywhere," says Lamb sadly.

"You should go to Modern," says Mackler, who knows the hot night everywhere. "You should go on Wednesday."

Mackler puts on some lipstick and wishes for liner. She looks at her black sweater in the mirror and wishes for something else. She changes into a tube top.

Hernandez tells Lamb she'd look good with some lip gloss, and passes it over. Mackler puts some on, too. The clock ticks and Mackler says, "Midnight? Is it really midnight?" And she makes some phone calls and says, "Hey, where are you?" and the group of women and one whining, licking dog tramp down the steps to the first floor, as Hernandez declares, to no one in particular, "I gotta get my party and drink on!"

Downstairs, the guys have been drinking Sapphire vodka, and two of them start hitting on Hernandez. She leans coolly against the wall and watches them fumble. The women check one another out. Their collective lip gloss is blinding. The last few stragglers arrive, making the group 11 -- they will need a caravan of three cars to get to the club.

"This is rare that there's this many people," Mackler says, "but it's Dream."

The way she says it, the word means so much.

The friends get their coats and start moving toward the door.

As they step outside, Mackler's friend Amy Hills, who has a penchant for saying what's on her mind, casts her eyes over Mackler's tiny skirt.

"Damn, Anna!" she declares. "Nice legs!"

Getting In

By 12:30 the line of regular folks trying to get in is about 30 people long. There are guys in sports coats and striped polos; women in sleeveless tops with no jackets, despite the cold. Mackler walks straight up to the other side of the rope, where the would-be VIPs are all trying to convince someone that they're on The List. Behind the ropes are big beefy men in black leather coats. They do not smile.

"We're 11," Mackler says to one of them.

"There's 11 of you guys?" the bouncer says. "And you guys are on The List?"

Of course.

He eyes a clean-cut guy standing next to Mackler.

"Is he with you?" he asks. He isn't. "Back up," he tells the guy. "Back up! Back up, man!"

"Dude, I'm standing still," the guy says, snippy but a little scared.

"Back up, man," the bouncer says, his voice hard.

The man backs up.

The bouncer turns back to Mackler and lifts the rope.

"It depends who talks to who," Mackler says as she clicks up the marble steps and through the glass doors of the club, followed by her entourage. They've all been given white wristbands and red-star stamps on their hands to indicate they have "all access." "It depends that you're with girls, too."

They take in the first floor. It's not as crowded as it should be. Everyone, it seems, has headed upstairs, so Mackler and her friends do, too. They've been in the club less than five minutes, but there are already fewer of them than walked in; they've been whittled by the inexplicable process of subtraction that happens to large groups in nightclubs. (The two guys who like Hernandez are circling the area looking for parking -- and they never even get in.)

On the second floor, Mackler leads the remaining members of her group past the dance floor and into the VIP lounge. "It's easier to get drinks in here," she says.

The lounge is enclosed by glass, so the good people can look out on the regular people and -- more importantly -- the regulars can peer in. All the couches are full except one group labeled RESERVED. At another table is an ice bucket filled with bottles of champagne. (Three bottles of Moet, Mackler will note later, plus a bottle of Belvedere vodka. "They've spent like $1,000," she notes with a hint ofamusement.) Folks sit at stools along a bar. Mackler and her friends stand by the edge of the bar discussing what they should drink. Mackler advocates shots of Petron tequila, which she says run $9 each, but are rather cost-effective.

"You get two shots and you feel nice," she says. (Not that $9 is all that much by Dream standards. Barnes, the owner, says he charges $550 for a bottle of Cristal champagne and $200 for a shot -- a shot! -- of Remy Martin Louis XIII cognac.)

"Excuuuuuuse me," comes a voice. A woman is standing in front of Mackler, with long blond-and-black braids, wearing a blousy black dress. From behind large purple sunglasses, she shoots a long, dismissive look at one of the women, and then leans in to talk to Mackler in a conspiratorial fashion that suggests they're good friends.

But she's an utter stranger. She explains that she's a club "diva" with all the officiousness of a doctor. Then she asks Mackler to take off her long black coat. She shouldn't be wearing her coat in the VIP lounge, Diva says; it just isn't cool. Mackler takes off her coat and Diva goes back to her seat.

Mackler stands and looks slightly astonished for a moment. But astonishment isn't cool in a place like this. She regains her poise and, coat over arm, wanders over to the far side of the lounge to talk to a bouncer. She speaks into his ear; his arm snakes casually around her waist.A big guy walking past gushes, "You know, I love your skirt. It's beautiful."

Mackler thanks him.

It's very possible he's not talking about her skirt.

Full House

The quest continues. They leave the VIP lounge, walk past a woman in leather pants and another in a tight, disco-y jean jumpsuit. Up the stairs to the third floor, past a girl going the other way who's shouting, "This is so wild!" and onto the covered deck, they peer into the third-floor dance room.

It really is wild.

The room is tight as can be. Here and there people's hands are stretched upright, holding cigarettes above their heads, because it's near impossible to smoke without burning someone. The DJ is playing Nelly and the people are happy. Mackler and her crew squeeze through to a bar, where they get drinks, then squeeze their way out and back onto the deck.

A guy in a plaid shirt compliments Mackler on her skirt. "Where'd you get it?"

Made it, she says.

"That's awesome!"

He reaches down and touches the end of the fabric as if she's not a complete stranger, as if she's a dressmaker's mannequin on display. The women dance as well as they can holding purses and drinks. They dance on the deck. They dance on the dance floor. They dance on the deck again. Nearby are Wizards players Jahidi White and Chris Whitney. The girls notice but don't make a big deal of it.

One of Mackler's roommates, a guy named Rob who declines to give his last name, gets reflective. "I think D.C.'s come into its own as far as social scene," he says. "For this many people to be in a club in Northeast, it's something happening. But it's too many [bleeping] people."

They decide to go downstairs.

Back on the second floor, house music is thumping. Mackler says, "The music upstairs was better."

The Soccer Player

By quarter to 3, the first-floor bathroom -- warmly lit and floored in what Marc Barnes calls "very expensive" red slate tiles -- has devolved into something less sophisticated. Paper towels overflow the waste basket and spill onto the floor. Two women are standing in the corner; one ties her friend's black halter top, while the halter-wearer, um, cups herself.

Mackler and her friends are by the second-level dance floor, but they're not dancing. The lip gloss has worn off. They've still got energy -- they'll stay till the club closes at 4 a.m. -- but they've seen everything there is to see. Hernandez is leaning against a wall again, but this time she's the one scamming. She's making eyes at a bouncer outside the VIP lounge. "He's cute," she says. Nearby, Amy Hills is being chatted up by a broad-shouldered fellow with rakish blond curls.

The girls are conferring. Helen Casteel, sweet and vivacious, says they've decided the blond fellow looks like a "Brazilian soccer player." Blunt-tongued Hills comes over and gives her assessment.

"He's stupid," she says.

"So, no go?" asks Casteel.

"He's got no brain."

Casteel asks where he's from.

"He's from Bali," Hills says.

"Bali!" Casteel shrieks, and claps her hands like a middle-schooler, and Hills gives Hernandez a girlish hug. And for a moment, this seems less like a nightclub and more like a lunch room. Less like a dream and more like a memory.


© 2001 The Washington Post Company