I’m sitting on the couch, a little removed from where Frank and Jay are telling our carjacking story to a small circle of bewildered, impressionable freshmen. I am three drinks buzzed, a little of my rum and Coke still in my hand, and I’m trying to decide how much drunker I want to be.
The issue at hand is the girl in the grey skirt, all smooth lines and wicked smile; for her part, I’ve only seen her sipping on a Mike’s Hard, and she’s perched on a shitty chair by the kitchen door, doing the thing where you’re paying attention to someone else’s conversation and making the appropriate titters and nods but not actually involved. I’ve never seen her at one of Steven’s parties before; given her slight awkwardness, I’ve placed her, after some consideration, as a friend-of-a-friend.
What I’d mainly like to do is meander over there—all of ten feet—and talk to her a little. Not a pick-up, maybe not even flirting; for all I know she’s here with another guy. Just to see if her personality matches the sharp acquisitiveness in her eyes. See if she’s analyzing people as much as I am, which is what it looks like.
But for some reason, I’m intimidated; maybe it’s the elegant gold choker or just her general air; so I’m still sitting here, doing a little head dance and deciding if a few shots of tequila is what I need.
My phone buzzes on my hip, giving me a brief start, like it always does when I’ve been drinking; maybe my animal brain thinks it’s a bomb. Maybe I was a robot in a former life. I flip it up, seeing the ID, and push it to my head. “Hey.”
“Sup, man.” It’s Edgar, who I last saw on the back porch sharing the hookah with his girl. Actually, he’s probably still there; it’s nice and warm out.
“Listen, bro, I’m kinda not wanting to move, and Clarissa’s kind of planted on me, but I need another beer. Can you get me a Corona?”
He must be joking. “Are you shitting me?”
“What are you doing? Still fucking moping around? You’re going to get a clot. C’mon, Becca was a bitch. Get over it, get up, get me a drink before I get dehydrated.”
What an asshole. Shouldn’t have picked up the phone. I remember the time, sophomore year, when I set his kitchen on fire for being too much of a dick. I should stop coming to these fucking things with him. Ironically we are—were—friends mainly through Becca, which probably doesn’t speak too well for his brand of loyalty.
On the other hand, it’s a perfect excuse to get up, and of all things, he’s right; I’ve spent the entire party so far sitting on the couch, throwing around slightly bitter thought bubbles. Rubbing my face with my left hand, I say murkily, “All right, give me a sec.”
Glancing at the girl in the grey skirt as I stand, I notice that she’s finished her drink, which she left abandoned on the floor—Mike’s are like a post-party statistic on female participation—and is smoothing her skirt out, preparing to get up too. Hmm. I’ve already walked too far to keep staring, though, or to pretend to fiddle with something as a delay, so I just plod past her into the kitchen as if lost in my own business.
Steven’s kitchen is the most brightly-lit room in the house, ever since he replaced the aging bulb fixtures with a bank of fluorescents. (The story he tells is that the old lights got smashed by six Delta Phi boys trying to verify the accuracy of a “How many frat kids does it take to change a lightbulb?” joke. Actually, he butted the top of a bookshelf into them while rearranging furniture.) With the galvanized steel ice bucket dominating the center table, filled with ice and glinting glass, it all looks vaguely clinical, like he’s storing organs. But I’m too sapped to give any wit.
Steven is pulling a six-pack of MGD from its cardboard and throwing the bottles in when he sees me. “What’s up—careful, table’s wobbly.”
I plunge my hand in, feeling the freeze attack my arm, and pull out a Corona. Ever helpful, Steven tosses me a rag as I start to leave, and I give the bottle a quick rub to dry it off, then throw the towel back over my shoulder, not entirely confident that it will miss the bucket, and not much caring.
I feel creaky, old, lethargic; I want to sit down. I want to go to sleep—at home. God damn. The noise level from different parts of the mansion varies like a carnival, some areas moodily dark and silent, others on their way to becoming miniature dance parties. Making my way for the back porch, I shiver as a gust of wind comes through the screen, swirling inside with a rustle of papers and metal.
Down in the yard, nine or ten people are still outside. A couple of solitary smokers are packing bowls, adding to the faint airborne flavor of burning THC. One of the sun-worshipping types is tending to the fire, somber as Hestia. Several couples are lying in various stages of undress on the lounges and mattresses spread here and there. Sonya Dries and a guy I’ve never met are necking aggressively on a lawn chair, she straddling his lap. Jeez. I spot Edgar and Issa on the mattress closest to the fence, brass hookah (even more dented and weary than when I last saw it) knocked over alongside them. Issa’s wrapped around his chest, fast asleep and snoring gently. Alcohol puts her out like a sleeping pill. Becca used to do that.
“Thanks, man,” as I hand him the beer, then turn to go back in without a word, not really wanting to linger out here, feeling uselessly annoyed at the lovebirds and irrationally jealous. I get back to the door before I realize that I didn’t open the bottle for him, almost hesitate, but then don’t. Fuck ’im.
My mood darkening by the moment, I head back down the hall, and pass the open door to the card room, adjacent to the living room where my couch is waiting. A hubbub is coming from inside, not the usual party sounds, and curiosity peeks out over my lethargy to convince me to glance inside.
Nolan Treb... Trebwhatever, the self-proclaimed Don Juan of the scene, who I hadn’t even realized was here tonight. One glance tells me he’s boozed beyond belief. Another tells me the situation involves a girl. A final one convinces me that it’s one of those awkward hurt-aggressive scenes, which is not where I want to be, so I immediately start walking again, shortcutting through the card room back to my couch. There’s a little murmur of dialogue as I pass; I might’ve bisected a few Social Floor Positions and Lines of Hostile Stares. Whoops.
I notice that the girl in the grey skirt is gone, but before I can wonder where, Nolan’s clamor from behind me reaches a pitch even I can’t tune out. “And you MOTHERFUCKERS STOP STARING AT ME!”
I stop walking. I recognize that voice.
Beat, beat, beat. I don’t want to do this. Do I?
My stomach takes a little dip of adrenaline, my mind instinctively clears, and oddly enough, I realize that I do.
I hang an immediate left turn, coming back through the kitchen, where Steven is still lingering, apparently oblivious to the action nearby. I stab a finger at him, saying, “Steve, unless you want the cops rolling on a fight, get your ass in the card room”—I point—“and back me up.” Then I’m out into the hallway again, where I started.
I’m looking at Nolan’s back. His posture is hunched forward and aggressive, hands by his sides, but fists clenched and a little raised. I now notice what I didn’t before: he’s directly addressing another guy, who’s standing shoulder to shoulder with the girl, a small brunette I recognize from a creative writing class. She looks scared; the guy looks scared and angry, and everyone else still looks awkward, but heading towards freaked.
“Motherfuckers!”
Yep, he’s going to swing. I take one more look at the layout, then start moving rapidly toward Nolan, making a back off gesture at the lovebirds and hoping that Steve, entering from the other door right next to them, will make sure they don’t interfere.
I approach his back, but at an angle to avoid surprising him, and I enter his field of vision from the left. About a second later, I’m at his side, saying loudly, “Nolan! Sup, dog? Hey, you were rocking in the game today, tore it up! How many did you score, fifteen, twenty?”
As his eyes drop onto me, I can already see his brain trying to work, ego and distraction taking control. The initial danger of his reaction blunted, I clap my hand down firmly on his shoulder and sidle towards him.
“Like... twen... twenny five? Uh...”
“Fuckin’ sick, man. You psyched for next week? I hear you’re working a new defense, is that right?” I am now wedged tightly at his left side, hip to hip, hand locked onto his shoulder, and I begin to move him inexorably toward the exit, relying on the solidity of my position rather than force. Like directing a glacier.
“New zones... piss me off though...”
“I know, man, I know.”
Behind us, I can hear Steve talking, hopefully defusing the situation at that end. As we get farther from the scene of the drama and move down the hall, and I continue to work him with questions he has to squint to consider, he seems to be forgetting about it entirely, angry-drunk slipping to soporific-drunk. I bring him easily out the front door, sit him in the porch swing, go back in, and lock the door. He’ll be snoring in minutes.
By the time I get back to the card room, the idea of another drink is appalling. It would cool me down, but that’s the last thing I want. I can almost feel the fire kindled in my eyes and I love it.
A couple of people clap me on the back or make appreciative sounds, which I mostly ignore. But I just noticed the girl in the grey skirt, standing in one of the clusters by the wall, and she’s smiling at me.