I
J U S T B C K F R M :
A
O
96 AMERICANWAY
JULY 1 2009
It WAs About
the time the six-foot-nine
professional basketball player and his posse
nudged past me and into the VIP bowling
room that I realized I’d come to the right
place. I’d come to Charlotte, North Carolina
— the Queen City; the best city to live in in
America, according to one survey — to see
what happens when a fast-growing wun-
derkind village meets the global economic
meltdown. Does thepartying stop?Dopeople
walkaround their shiny, newmetropolismop-
ing, feeling sad for themselves and their fel-
low man and their fellow man’s Lexus? The
answer could be found, I’d hoped, in this
banking-center boomtown.
I had arrived just a few hours before and
had thenmet two friends and asked them to
showme how Charlotte’s finest were dealing
with the uncertainty of economic life in this
turbulent year. One friend, a commercial-real-
estateguy, had just laughed, saying, “Youwant
to see ifwe’redancingon the
Titanic
, huh?”
Exactly.
So, tosee if thatwere thecase,wewent to
themanybarsandclubsand loftsand restau-
rants of the EpiCentre, the enormous $200
millionmixed-use extravaganza that recently
opened inUptown,which iswhatmostpeople
would call downtown (don’t ask— it’s con-
fusing). Itwasa rebuke to thenotion that the
party could ever end, the perfect place to see
if Charlotte’s heartbeatwas still strong.
From the looks of things at StrikeCity, the
shoulder-to-shoulder nightclub-cum–bowling
alley at the EpiCentre’s center, the answer
was a resounding yes. The placewas packed
with youthful, free-spending revelers, many
of whom had just left the Charlotte Bobcats’
late-season basketball contest— including, I
was told, Bobcats themselves.
We were first alerted to the presence of
said professional-sports stars by the intense
stare from a pride of middle-aged females
to our right. I followed their gaze and saw a
lonelyman standing by a door in the back of
the club.We sauntered over to the doorman,
who, it turned out, was also part bouncer for
the back roomwith the two private lanes. He
kindlybutfirmly toldushecouldn’t let us into
theVIP area. At that point, a power forward
from the team, which had just lost a heart-
breaking game down the street at the Time
WarnerCableArena,walked inand joined the
young women gyrating and lip-synching,
neither expressing a care in the world other
than for exploring their appreciation of
apple-bottom jeans and bootswith the fur, if
T-Pain’s lyrics canbe taken literally.
Truth be told, itwas impossible not to get
swept up in the joie de vivre on display this
night in Charlotte. The streets of the large
city’s urban core were filled with bustling
people, even past midnight. Their faces were
diverse and glowing. The streets were clean.
Therewasanenergypresent that at once felt
recentlymanufactured (because itwas; Char-
lotte is a very
new
city, if nothing else) and
yet somehow organic, incongruous as that
may seem.
Then we were swept up literally; it was
like a wave took us onto the dance floor. Al-
though we drove the club’s median age up
just by entering the door, that didn’t stop us
from feeling welcome among the undulating
group of beautiful, young Charlotte denizens.
We spent the last hours of the early morn-
ing among them, imbibing responsibly, alter-
ing our standard fox-trot moves to better
complement the impressive backside gyra-
tions popular among today’s Fred andGinger
wannabes. For a night, it looked and felt like
all thingswerepossible, likeAmericawas go-
ing to be just fine, and like the tilt in our ship
would surely right itself by daylight.
other very important bowlers.
“You understand, don’t you?” the doorman
askeduswhenmy friends tried toname-drop
to gain access. (Note to readers: “In-flight-
magazine back-page writer” is not as im-
pressive a sobriquet as you might imagine.)
“I’d do the same thing if you guys paid for
the room.” Itwas good to know thatmy col-
league Carlton Stowers wouldn’t be allowed
to crashmy party inChar-town.
Where to next? We had already gorged
like kings at the EpiCentre steak house Flem-
ing’s. Of course, we’d eaten the choicest cuts.
And of course, my friend, a big-shot develop-
er in town, had been sent a bottle ofwine by
themanager—peoplewhobuildbig, beauti-
ful buildings are rock stars in Charlotte. It’s
a bootstrap city, made flush by land deals
and the banking industry.Musician, actor, TV
personality… pffft. Have they ever gotten 30
percent return on a downtown parking lot?
Dinner had been just more proof that here,
in the words of noted songwriter/economist
Robert Earl Keen, the roadmay indeed go on
forever and the party certainly never ends.
To work the marbling out of our fat and
happybuns,wedecideddancingwas inorder.
We wandered over to Mez, the EpiCentre’s
dance club for Charlotte’s beautiful people.
Inside, itwas pure 2004: well-dressed young
men smirking and posing, barely dressed
ByEricCeleste
Charlotte,NorthCarolina
A recentAliveAfter Five event
at theEpiCentre
