Bringing to Surface the Underground Community

LOST VELOCITY, FOUND HOPE
The whole city of Kent appears to be asleep.
It is 9:30, and we are determined to find the elusive club that our tattered Mapquest directions insist is located in this shady neighborhood. We travel down the same street at least four times; the adult video store, dilapidated motels, multiple bars and out-of-place Bigfoot Java become a familiar blur. We finally admit defeat and are forced to use the "phone a friend" lifeline. Even the manager at Denny’s hasn’t heard of a place so many high school students have been talking about: a 16 and up dance club – Club Velocity.

Parked at the eerie corner where this club should have been located, it seems two prepared, well-researched and determined high school journalists are stumped. We spend at least an hour making phone calls to people with internet access and trying to figure out if we’re just incompetent or if finding a club could really be this challenging. If so many kids from around the area could unravel the mystery and attend, why not us? But our only choice is to return home to suburbia and try to figure out what key information we must be missing.

Google "Club Velocity Kent WA" (or Club Spectrum, as it used to be called) and you’ll soon discover that the venue doesn’t have anything resembling a website. With an outdated MySpace as our surest source of information, there was no choice but to call the phone number meant to "text to get on the VIP list." After being redirected three times, Hayley ends up with the valuable information that the club is open on Saturday nights, not Friday. She also ends up with a MySpace Friend Request from the same sketchy 23-year-old guy and an uncomfortable message that reads, "Hey, you’re kind of cute."

After another week has gone by and we have plenty of time to vent about our unsuccessful voyage to Velocity, we know it is time to revisit the mysterious world of teen clubbing. We leave behind spring tolo and scurry off to Kent in full "disco" attire. We are aware of the humiliation that will come with sporting such outfits to a night club, but we don’t mind. The theme of the night is just one more piece of information we are unable to find out.

CLASSY WEAR AND TRASHY DANCING
After effortlessly navigating our way to Kent once again, we pull up to the familiar warehouse district and are relieved to see lines filling the once-abandoned parking lot. The crowd is divided into two lines - boys and girls. Bouncers are seen surveying the masses, shouting instructions and blinding everyone with flashlights for no apparent reason.

It is time to split up, so Colin quickly says goodbye and vanishes into the crowd of males as Hayley joins the mass of girls that seems to be twice as long. After all, admission is cheaper for females. A group of young girls run over to the line, screaming, and link arms with an existing group of rambunctious girls already waiting. More than one group of girls from Puyallup has found its way to this unmarked lot. A sudden gust of wind leaves everyone chilled and reveals that a pale young girl is wearing nothing but a skin-colored band aid under her skirt.

The line of males proves to be equally as entertaining. A group of men congregate by the alleyway, discussing the latest additions to the adult video store and a fresh drug deal from last week. Colin stands close behind, eagerly awaiting entrance. One thing is for sure - he doesn’t fit in. Not only is he not a regular at Velocity, a Kent resident, or club-savvy, but he is missing the proper attire. Hayley rushes over to Colin to reveal to him that there is a mix-up. All men are required to wear collared shirts. Hayley has no choice but to go in alone.

A dark hallway ends in a dimly lit intersection: to the left, a snack area that doesn’t serve alcohol; to the right, a dirty hallway lit with UV lights that leads to a grimy bathroom; straight ahead, the life of the party – the dance floor. The floor is illuminated with strobe lights and lasers, pounding with rap music played by a DJ in an elevated room at the front of the dance floor, filled with a mass of teens grinding and writhing with no regard for personal space, surrounded by wallflowers in groups of two and three leaning on the dark edges of the room.
It’s a sensory overload, which is why many club-goers have escaped to the hidden corners of Velocity. The atmosphere is electric, like you could walk up to anyone and start a conversation.

"There’s a lot of kids that are here every week. You get to know people you run into," a grinning Kent local said with a scantily clad girl on each arm and a glow stick around his neck.

It seems that dancing and socializing, dressed to impress, is an ideal pastime for the regulars; it’s a community of friends, a place of acceptance. Velocity’s strict rules – over 16 with ID, dress code, no drugs or alcohol – make it a safe place for teens to come.

"I definitely see some of the same kids every week. The turnover rate for employees is faster than clubbers," the stringy-haired cashier said, exposing the gap in her teeth. "We don’t really have a problem with people being drunk or high or getting in fights or anything. I don’t think that’s why they’re here."

Surrounded by sweaty dancers they don’t know beyond the dim lighting of the club, people feel at home.

Hayley finally emerges from the club, satisfied with solving some of the mysteries of teen clubbing. It’s time to head home once more. Meanwhile, Colin slumps in the backseat reliving the moment in which he was denied entrance to the club because he was not wearing a collared shirt. Surely, there is some irony in the fact that men are required to wear dressy shirts while females are encouraged to dress as scantily as possible. This is the second disappointing ride back from the club for Colin and we agree to revisit the following weekend. After all, it is only fair.

SOME QUESTIONS WILL BE FOREVER UNANSWERED
We hope our third attempt will be our last. It’s Saturday night and we can’t help but laugh as we unload our entire closets into the backseat in case another wardrobe discrepancy arises. We are prepared: shirts of all kinds, open and closed-toe shoes. The trip to Kent seems nauseatingly redundant. So is the fact that Hayley can nearly drive to Club Velocity blind-folded. We pull up to the lot in which Club Velocity is located.

Silence.

There is no sign of human activity. Déjà vu: we recall being left in this same empty parking lot and same state of confusion as our first trip up to Velocity. But that was a Friday. The building we last saw buried in swarms of pumped teenagers is now just a sad red structure with shabby doors. With virtually no information in hand, we are forced to call it a night for the last time.
The shabby warehouse is now only a speck in the rearview mirror and soon fades into the night. The soothing harmonies of Andrew Bird are almost enough to take our minds off of our disappointing night on the car ride home. But so many questions are left unanswered.

Why was the club closed on Saturday one weekend, but not the next? How were we supposed to know to wear a collared shirt? And most importantly, how does one become part of this underground community; how do they become in "the know"?

If there is one answer gained from our numerous failed attempts, it’s that the club scene is truly a family. People get their information by word of mouth, and the regulars that make up Club Velocity seem perfectly happy to keep it that way. It’s this secret, exclusive feel that keeps kids coming back. They’re a part of something.

"People come to dance and have a good time with their friends. We mingle with kids here. It keeps us from sitting at home being bored, and for some people this is their alternative to a Saturday night on the streets," a petite girl from Seattle said back at Club Velocity, casually leaning over a table in a dark hallway. "It’s a place to stay out of trouble. It’s their home away from home."