The mind can play tricks...
“Stephen.” Now’s not the time.
“Stephen.” She’s persistent, always was.
“Stephen!” Okay, fine.
“What?” I reply. I guess I have to. Harry isn’t the sort of girl that you can ignore for ever. I don’t even know why I would, but I do. And Harry? Never been able to get past that name. “What do you need, babe?”
I just can’t call her Harry.
“You’re throwing a party, and you haven’t talked to anyone,” she tells me. Even when she’s chastising me, she’s beautiful. Frizzy brown hair, mousy features, a stern look on her face. Not the ideal of most guys, but, I’m not most guys. I wouldn’t change her for the world.
“Yeah I did.” Well, except for her name. I’d change that in a heartbeat.
“You haven’t moved from this spot since the party started,” she informs me.
“Sure, I talked to Jared. He said something about… wait… that might have been last week. Possibly. Does it matter, really, whether or not I talk to them? I bought the alcohol; what the hell else do they want from me?”
“They’re your friends. Is conversation too much to ask?”
“Fine, fine, fine.” I’m grumpy already, and she doesn’t help.
“So, what were you staring at?” she asks me.
“Nothing. Not a god damn thing.”
I turn around and walk away.
The party plays itself out across the faux wood floors of my apartment. I’ve got a snack table. I’ve got a liquor table. There’s a small set of speakers blaring music with all their might like the little engine that could. Only these couldn’t, ‘cause no one could really hear the music beyond a few feet. Never buy speakers from a guy in a parking lot. Light comes in through the open windows – the party has barely begun. This is going to be a long night.
I make my way through the party. I push past Kurt, he’s a douche. All he ever does it talk about his stupid fucking frat. One time, he told me about this game that they used to play called Ookie Cookie. I don’t even want to explain it – it’s just that bad. I can’t stand the guy, but, I’m friends with Janey, and her terrible taste in men led her to that idiot. Why do women like the men that have the least to offer? Lord knows I can’t figure it out, but then again, Harry… Harriet, whatever, my girl, is with me. So, I can’t really complain, can I? Well, I can complain that her parents gave her a shitty name. And for the record, it’s not Harriet. It’s just Harry. I’ve tried many times to feminize it, all in vain. I mean, a guys name is bad enough, but did it have to be the one that’s a homonym for hairy? At least she isn’t actually hairy… at least not in unusual places. That would have made it much more awkward. So where was I?
Oh, right… push past Kurt. And then I’ve got to navigate between Jim and Jimmy. Again with the bad names. If we were all given numbers instead of a name, we wouldn’t have this crap. I’d be number 423363. Don’t ask me why, I just know that’d be my number. Jim and Jimmy. Best friends forever. Seriously, they were baby sat by the same mother as infants. They’re like the odd couple of my family of friends and I’ve never been able to decide which one is dumber.
I push past them without a word. No point in wasting time there. Next stop: Cherry. That one’s not her real name, but everyone calls her that ever since they found out she used to work as a part time stripper. I’m sure you can guess what her stage name was. Her real name’s Janine. Cherry is an improvement if you ask me. But guys always like things that reference food. That’s why Cherry is such a successful stripper name. That’s why, if a guy has a scented candle, it’s probably going to smell like baked goods. If they made a steak scented candle, half the guys in America would own it. Probably wouldn’t be that popular in India though.
Cherry is a good girl though. She was, technically speaking, an ‘exotic dancer,’ which is apparently very different from a ‘stripper.’ See, according to Cherry, an exotic dancer dances to entertain men. A stripper doesn’t just dance… if the price is right, well… let’s just say she’ll be your private dancer. And then some. She’ll have sex with you. I just want to make sure I get the point across. Exotic dancer = sexy entertaintress. Stripper = ho.
But, like I said, Cherry is a nice girl. Most people thought it was a rumor when they found out. Then we all went and visited the strip club where she supposedly worked. That was awkward. Fun, but awkward.
Cherry’s boyfriend, Todd, standing next to her – he doesn’t know she was a stripper. Cherry made the entire gang swear on pain of death to never let him know. Apparently, she’s going to tell him eventually, but she wants him emotionally invested before she breaks the news.
I’m not good at keeping secrets, so I slide past her as quickly as possible.
I finally make it to my goal: the chip table. I grab a chip and toss it in my mouth, and well, like pretty much everything in my life, it is a disappointment. It’s just there. No flavor. No salsa. Damnit! Why the fuck isn’t there salsa? I fucking told Harry to buy salsa, where the fuck is it?
Wait… wait….
The fridge.
I push through more people. Jim, again, he must have moved. Tom, Manuel, Gary, Susan, Sam, Janey again, Naquita (not sure about spelling), Beth and Joe. Wait… that’s not Joe. No, no… Jim? No, not a chance there’s three here. Jake? I think it’s a J name. Joseph? Fuck it. I don’t like him anyways. No… no, no. He’s coming over here.
“Hey… man. How are you?” I say to him. What the fuck is his name?
“Good, good. How are you Stephen?” Fucking show off he is.
“I’m fucking dandy. Dick.”
“What?”
“Is that your name? I’m sorry, I’m bad with names, and I’ve been drinking so… if you’ll excuse me, but isn’t your name Dick? Short for Richard? Or something?”
“No… it’s Adam. Dude, you’ve known me for… what? A year and a half?”
“Yeah, and I… oh fuck it. I’m busy.”
I turn around and walk off. He doesn’t seem happy. I don’t care.
Finally.
Finally.
I get to the fridge and open it… and there is the salsa.
I take it as fast as I can back to the chip table. Past Adam (never would have guessed that), Beth, Naquita (sounds like a Mexican entrée), Janey yet again, Sam, Susan (she may be a lesbian - hit on Sam drunkenly once (Sam is a girl, by the way, and an open lesbian)), Susan, oh, I just said her. And speak of the devil, now she seams to want to talk to me. The damn salsa will have to wait.
“Hey, Susan. How are you?”
“Oh, I’m great. Awesome party, Stephen.”
“Oh, Susan… it’s still nothing compared to that one last… oh, what was that… October? You know which one I’m talking about.”
“Look… I would really appreciate it if everyone would stop bringing it up.”
Sam pops into the conversation. Maybe I can steer this in a positive direction.
“Stephen. Shut the fuck up, alright?” Sam says.
“Not a chance. Look, I’m gonna try to help you out. Alright?” I put my hand on Susan’s shoulder and guide her away from Sam for a moment. “Susan… look, I know you’re going through a – shall we say – transitionary time in your life. I think, that if you were to open yourself up to this opportunity that I’m about to present to you, you may find a new lease on life. I think that you, me and Harry should have a threesome, and before you say no, I’d like to mention that, I’d be there, and I’m a guy, and Harry, while female, has a guys name. So it’d be like you’re not doing anything leztastic at all. I think it would be a great way to broaden your horizons.”
“I was drunk when I made out with Sam, and it’s never happening again. So shut the hell up, and don’t ever bring my sexuality up again, asshole.”
“Oh, Susan. It’s a beautiful thing. In fact, I still watch that video of you and Sam on youtube all the time. It’s nothing to be ashamed about.”
“Screw you.” She tells me.
“That’s what I’m suggesting, but not just me. Think about it.”
And I’m off. I pass Gary, Manuel, Tom, and Jim and then I’m back to the chips.
I unscrew the jar of salsa… Salsa Verde Grande Picante Especial. I grab a chip, scoop up as much salsa as will fit and take a bite.
That was way the hell too much work for so little pay off. I can’t help but wonder – if Harry had put out the salsa like she was supposed to, would it have tasted better because less work went into it? Or did it taste better as is, because I had to work harder to earn it? Is there anyway that it could have not tasted shitty? These questions, sadly, may be the most important questions of the day.
My god, how did I arrive in a place like this?
I throw down the chip in my hand – the one that was supposed to be chipa numero dos. Fuck that. It’s not worth it. I walk away. I wash my hands of the damned bowl, the salsa, the whole table. There’s nothing there. I move to a new corner of the room. Maybe a drink will help.
Damn, damn, damn, another sea of people. A nightmare mer of morons. Jill, I think that’s her name is first; sure, she’s hot, but she’s about as empty inside as an eggshell ready to be made into a cascerone. I push past her. Closely, mind you. No harm there.
Next is Tom. Damnit, he’s over here too? He’s friends with everyone, just like the eponymous douche from Myspace. God I hope he doesn’t try to talk to me. Everything he says is about as empty and useless as that head on Jill’s shoulders.
Jared and Darek next. Better, but not by much.
Derek, as usual, has become quite inebriated and moved on to his raunchy jokes. “So a priest and a rabbi are sitting on a park bench, and a little boy walks by…”
I pass him and move towards the bar. He always tells the same slew of jokes. First he tells the easy ones, and once he’s gotten through them without mistakes, he’ll move to the harder ones. But then, by the hard ones, he’s so drunk he screws them up. And everyone here has heard them before. They just let him keep at it because it’s easier than getting him to shut up.
I try to pass Jared, but he intercepts me. At least it wasn’t Derek.
“Jared. How are you? How’ve you been?” I say as I look over his shoulder longingly at the bottle of Irish whiskey.
“Same ol’ same ol’,” he responds. “What about you?”
“Nothing’s changed – never really does though, so that’s no surprise. What’ve you been up to?” Mr. Collins calls to me. Why can’t Jared leave me be?
“The usual. What about you?”
“The same, just getting through the daily routine. Been to any good parties lately?” I guess I’ll have to make the small talk. Best to keep it inane though.
“Haven’t been to any since the last one you threw.” He was there? Huh. Oh yeah. I talked to him. Eh, whatever.
“Ah… ah… got your eye on any cute girls?” He better not say my sister.
“Only your sister, I’m still waiting for you to take the ban off of her.”
“Yeah, well keep waiting; don’t expect that to change anytime soon.” Fucking prick, I add in my head.
“Come on man, she could do a lot worse.” Yeah, it could be Derek, I think.
“Yeah, but she could also do a lot better. I want her to shoot for the stars.”
“I don’t know, from what I’ve heard, all the stars are fucked up on coke. I’m sure you don’t want your sis mixed up with that.”
“This is true.”
There’s a lull in the conversation… the room starts to get quiet and, as usual in such situations, from the invading silence comes a stalwart defender of the land of noise – Derek.
“I like my women like I like my scotch… twelve years old and mixed up in coke.”
It works like a defib and suddenly the pulse of the party is back.
“Wow, that was… odd timing,” Jared says.
I passively agree, but it’s clear that our conversation has pretty much exhausted itself. That’s been happening a lot lately. I’ve been too long in the same circle, going over the same old ground, and what have I found? Nothing new. Nothing unexpected. Even that odd timing between Derek and Jared and the coke… I couldn’t have told you it was coming, but it wasn’t in the least bit surprising to me.
How the hell do I not have a drink yet?
I just walk past Jared without another word. I grab a bottle of Irish Whiskey at the table.
“Michael Collins, you’re my hero,” I say out loud. Some girl I don’t know glances at me like I’m crazy, or an alcoholic. She’s a clever one.
I pour myself a glass and throw it back quickly. Alright. That was a good start… now where to go from here?
Hmm… I look across the table, whiskey, gin, vodka, ridiculously fruity liqueurs, scotch, and there’s beer in the ice chest. So many doors to choose, but only one bears my name.
Gin. I hate the stuff, but, it is very reliable. Everytime I drink it, I get sick, and if I’m sick, I can avoid all these assholes. I grab the gin, the vermouth and a glass and work myself towards a makeshift martini.
“Hey.” Damnit, not now. A voice over my shoulder, and if it’s who I think it is… I just keep quiet. Maybe she’ll go away.
“Hey, Stephen.” Shit. I’m not that lucky. I turn around as my heart sinks and disappears into the depths of my clenched gut.
“Hey, Shelly. How are you?” I keep mixing though. It’s my only possible escape.
“Oh, I’ve been just great. Really busy though. I just got this job offer working at a…”
I continue mixing… almost done… all I need is an olive… damnit, no olive. What is there… I can’t drink it without a garnish, then it’s just gin and vermouth…. Damnit, fine, that’ll do. I grab a key lime, whole, and drop it in the glass and turn back around to face that… creature.
“Oh, that’s interesting.” I don’t know what the hell she said.
“So, do you think I should take the offer?” She asks me.
My mischievous side rises up in me. I smile broadly. “You know what I think?”
“What?”
“I think that you should march up there, and tell them that you’re worth twice as much, and that there’s not a chance in hell that you’ll work for peanuts like that. And you better believe it, you’re worth three times that Shelley, but hey… baby steps.” I chug the martini. The damned lime rolls and flops around on my face, but this time, my effort is entirely worth it – or at least it will be once the ethanol clouds my mind. Soon… very soon.
Shelley smiles at me. God I hope she takes my advice.
I turn around and start fixing another martini, only stopping to pour myself a quick shot. I want to turn around and see if Shelley has left, but that might draw her back into a conversation. I seriously can’t stand most of these people. What gets me is how many of them can’t seem to understand that simple fact. They take my rude jokes for an “in-your-face” sense of humor and just smile and nod. I’m pretty sure that even if I said, “I hate you,” to some of these people they’d still just smile and nod with that dumb dull look on their face.
I take my newly prepared martini and push further away from the people, eventually reaching the window. When I get there, I take a sip and then stare out at nature. The sun is finally dropping and has begun to cast a bloody light across the bright outside. There’s this one tree that I always try to park under, but I almost never get the spot. It sits right outside my window, only 50 ft off or so. Underneath it, as the sun slides further and further down, I notice a strange array of shadows congeal and form a silhouette. A strange and terrible creature of shadow seems to stand and stare at me. A branch rustles and he turns his head as if to nod at me. In my mind’s eye, he approaches, slowly crawling, slithering, sliding until he stands just outside my window, hiding out of view. A nausea churns in my stomach as an involuntary spasm shakes my frame. I open my eyes and the strange creature is gone, as if someone had flipped on a switch, and yet still, he lurks at the back of my head.
“Stephen. What the hell? Why are you always staring off into space?” Harry is on my back again. I’ve got a hairy back. I sometimes have a terrible waking nightmare where Harry reveals that she’s a post-op transsexual. “Aren’t you going to go talk to your friends?”
“Damnit, I already did that, don’t make me do it again.”
“You are the worst party host of all time.”
“No – what about the one in that horror flick that killed all his guests?” Terrible film, by the way, “At least I’m not planning on killing any of them.” As long as they don’t keep trying to talk to me.
“You’re real, the ‘Dark Host’ isn’t. You can’t use that as a basis for anything.”
“But, ‘Dark Host’ was based on a true story,” I counter triumphantly.
“No, it was inspired by true events. But so is everything else. If you watch a horror film and then decide to write one yourself it’s inspired by true events, because you really did watch the film, and it really did inspire you. None of it means that there’s any truth to it at all.”
She has a point.
“I still don’t want to talk to them. I already did. Host duties fulfilled.”
Wow… okay, the drinking is starting to affect me.
“Look, babe, I’m just asking you to try and get along with them, and try to be a little more social,” she pleads.
“Why? Why the fuck should I? Why am I even throwing this party when I don’t like half of these assholes?”
“What is wrong with you?” I don’t respond to that particular one, so she eventually just storms off, probably to take a smoke break outside. Not a bad idea, but then I’d have to talk to her, so I decide I’ll do it later.
I feel a slight itch on my nose, which I unconsciously move to scratch, which leads to me doing the face-swipe-buzz-test (where you wipe your face with your hand and if it feels funny then you’re buzzed) and the test results come back ethanol-positive. I shake my head as if to clear it and it only becomes more muddled. I look out at the people around me. It’s so fucking oppressive – all these people, so many of them unbearable, so many of them fools, talking, chitchatting, making small talk smaller than a grain of fucking sand. I doubt if there’s one conversation in this room that’s undeserving of the adjective “vapid.” It makes me sick and it makes me scared. When did we become a group of automatons that just repeated ad infinitim a routine that even included conversations and recreation. Party after party, get-together after get-together, soiree after soiree stretch back in my mind like an image in two opposing mirrors. Trying to find a distinction between two of these events is a lot like solving those little puzzles where you get two almost identical images and have to find the 7 differences. I always hated those because the differences never mattered.
The door opens for a moment and someone pushes in – I can’t see who – but their entrance sends a ripple of people outward from the door as room is made. It’s a subtle thing, but I see it – possibly because my train of thought has attuned me to noticing subtle differences. The ripple pushes towards me and everyone around me moves just a little closer. I’m unable to move away because my back is to the window. I have a sudden and almost undeniable urge to open that window and climb out. I’m on the first floor so it wouldn’t be difficult. It might look strange though, but only to people that I care less and less about every day. I dismiss the idea, but not without a few moments of serious contemplation.
I feel that if I stand here much longer I might lose my mind – I might pick up the largest thing I can find, throw it through the window and run off to the horizon a la One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. A familiar feeling has begun to creep into the edges of my psyche, but I ward it off with deep breaths and a closing off of the senses. I push away the gurgling noise of the crowd around me and the smell of too many bodies and too many bottles of alcohol. I close my eyes to the smiling empty faces. The feeling leaves the center stage but stays in the wings of the theater, ready to return and act its part.
I down the last of my martini – I’ve gotten better at avoiding the key lime and suddenly I realize the ridiculousness of the lime and I disgust myself. I set the glass behind something where no one can see it. I push my way back towards the liquor table for another go at that elixir that dulls the senses. The gin doesn’t sit well with me and I’m already regretting it. I need something to settle it, but I can’t think of what. Finally, I settle on a beer. I open the cooler and grab a can of Murphy’s Stout. I grab a cup, crack open the can and empty it into the cup. The can’s still half full and there’s no room in the cup. I quickly down the contents of the cup and refill it from the can, which I leave on the table. I move towards the kitchen/dining area. Too many people. They try to talk to me, but I ignore them. I push through as if zombified. I reach the heart of it all and see no direction that bears any more appeal than the rest. I down the stout.
The curtains open and the player – that strange feeling - returns to the stage for the final act. The panic builds in me. My imagination runs wild, feeding the performance. It’s a play I’ve seen before so I’m resigned to seeking the subtle differences that place one performance higher than the other. I look around the room, the people – my friends – become teeth in the large vice-like maw of a creature constructed from the walls and ceiling of my apartment. In my mind I can see the rug rolled out as a lolling tongue, and the reddish windowed eyes staring out at the empty world – the hanging light is the dangling uvula and beyond it the dark bedroom – the final retreat. The door is already shut, the mouth closed… I panic… then, the door opens and in she comes – Harry – I want to warn her, tell her to go back– she could be free, she could escape this creature. Beneath the panicked hallucination I can feel the inescapable dread of being compressed in a sea of people, the undeniable need to leave, the terrifying thought of staying, and the suffocation of too many bodies, too close – I have to fucking get out. She isn’t quite in yet, but beyond her, I can see in the distance, in the trees beyond, the shadow, the creature that stalked me – no, outside… outside offered no refuge, I turn and stare deeper into the maw. God damnit! God damn it all. I push through the sea, that nightmare mer, and struggle back into the darkness of my bedroom, once in I close the door and move around to squat down behind a dresser, but I can still hear them: the laughing, shouting, bumbling mess of fools, strewn about my home. I hate them, and I hate me, and I hate the life I’d fallen into. Why am I unable to cope? There is nothing technically wrong with my life… nothing abnormal or terrible, other than my unmotivated hatred for it. So many people had it so much worse, but they could all tolerate it; why can’t I?
I curled up until the knock at the door came.
“Stephen.” She’s calling to me.
“Stephen.” I’m not sure if I should answer.
“Stephen.” I break down, as I always do for her.
“Come in,” I say.
She enters, cautiously. She must know what’s going on. She finds me in the dark. She drops to the floor and slides towards me. Her fingers find my knee and then work their way to my neck and she pulls in close to me. Her hair fills my existence as it blocks out the dark room. It smells like the cigars she smokes. She’s the only girl I’ve met that smokes cigars. I don’t know why I like that, but I do. Some people call her Dirty Harry, because of the cigars and the way she can push people around. She comes off like a gangster, always strong-arming people – usually me. But, I’m grateful, because if it wasn’t for her I doubt I’d get anything done. I doubt I’d ever leave my house. I don’t know what I’d do.
Sometimes I have trouble appreciating her. I slowly move my arms up around her and squeeze her tight. She pulls back her head and plants a single chaste kiss on me and then finally breaks the silence.
I feel a brief surge of anger at her for breaking that sacred thing.
“Are you okay?”
Let’s see if I can remember my lines. “Yeah, I am now,” I tell her.
“Do you want to talk about it?” I do, but that’s not my line.
“No, I just want to stay here for a moment.”
“Well, if you change your mind I’m here for you.” I contemplate breaking this silly cycle, but the thought scares me.
“Stephen?”
“What?”
“Tell me what’s wrong.”
This isn’t in the script. This isn’t how it goes – she’s forcing my hand, as she always does. This time gratitude wells up in me. But now I’m presented with a task I’ve never before attempted. I have to explain what’s wrong with me.
“Every day is exactly the same,” I quote. I’m not sure where to go from here – I hesitate, as if waiting for her approval to go on – she nods, a gesture I feel rather than see. Approval granted. “I feel trapped in this pattern. My life isn’t really going anywhere, most of my friends – well – nothing new happens with them. We do the same thing every week or two and nothing changes. I’ve been going to school for years and don’t seem any closer to graduating – and this city, this city is just eating me up. I can’t stand it here. I just want to do something with myself, something new, something bold.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. That’s the worst part. . . I don’t know.”
She is silent for a moment as she presumably contemplates her next move in this little game of “psychiatrist.”
“Well,” she begins, “For now, I think you should start by holding me.” I can see her smile even in the dark – I know it that well. “And then, I think we should start planning a trip. We’ll go somewhere on a little vacation, have some fun, something different, see something, somewhere. And after that, when we get back, we’ll put together a plan to get our shit in order. You need to graduate, so let’s see how quickly we can make that happen. And what are we going to do after you graduate? I think we just need something to work for. Direction. We’ve got the past, so let’s put all this bullshit back there,” she says, jerking her head to the party and gesturing towards the dark room around us, “and we’ve got to plan out the future, but baby, remember: As long as you’ll have me, I’ll be here for your present.”
I smile and squeeze her tight. “That’s the cheesiest thing I’ve ever heard you say.”
“I know,” she responds, “I thought the same thing the second the words left my mouth.” There’s a long pause. “But it’s true,” she says. I kiss her forehead.
“I know. I know. I love you.” I say.
“I love you, too,” she responds, “Now let’s go fake it through the rest of this party and then after we’ve cleaned up and gotten rid of everyone, we can spends some alone time together. Maybe start thinking of places to go.”
I agree.
It’s a start. It’s that first cool day after the long hot summer – it’s not winter yet, but change is in the air, it’s on its way, you can just feel it in your bones. There will be more warm days, but little by little the climate changes. Thinking about our talk, about the future, allows me to smile and nod my way through the rest of the party. Harry and I steal glances throughout the night, waiting for everything to die down. My mind slowly sobers and my heart grows more peaceful. No shadows or panicked images plague me – no more, tonight.
Jill babbles on, but my mind is only on the escape Harry presented me. I watch her over Jill’s shoulder, longingly, all the while thinking of the world what lies out there for me. Where could we go? Anywhere, really. Europe? California? Japan? All of them, maybe, eventually, but I’ll have to start somewhere. I’ll let Harry decide. I owe her that much, and so much more.