“Hey bro,” a stoned out kid stumbled up to me. He didn’t look any older than eighteen, straight blonde hair in his eyes. “Iz dis your house?”
“No; don’t you know whose place this is?”
“Nope,” he laughed. “I came here with some people, but they’re upstairs.” Christ. There was no telling what number if naked bodies there were up there. An occasional thumping sound and instantaneous laughing from upstairs indicated that things were well under way.
“Why don’t you go upstairs and join in?” I asked him.
“Naw,” he choked. “Don’t know if I should.”
“Why not?” I asked. “If you don’t, somebody else will.”
His dilated eyes glowed with peaked interest. “Really?”
“Sure,” I said, turning him around by the shoulders and pointing in the direction of the staircase. “Somewhere up there is a half naked cheerleader wondering why you’re down here playing with your balls. You’re missing it.”
“Missing it?” He didn’t sound convinced.
“Sure,” I said. “Why you hanging down here with these losers? Go on up and grab some love.”
“Grab some love?”
“Look,” I was losing patience. “You bring anybody with you?”
“N-no...”
“Okay then,” I said. “There’s got to be somebody up there that isn’t occupied.”
“M-M-Mike?”
“Yeah sure, sure,” I said. “I’ll bet he’s up there now wondering where the hell you’re at,” not knowing whether I ought to feel more sorry for the kid or Mike. Whoever the hell that was.
“Okay,” the kid resolved. He smiled over his shoulder at me. “Thanks.”
“No problem.”
He started up the stairs, trying to make sure he didn’t stumble. “Say,” he turned around.
“What?” I asked. “You nervous already?”
“No man,” he said. “I was just wonderin’...”
“Wondering what?”
“Are you sure this ain’t your house?”
“Positive,” I answered. “Why?”
He shrugged, started up the stairs. “You just seem so... adult. I d-d-don’t know...” and he wandered on up in the stairs in search of Mike who may or may not have been pleased by the prospect. Fucking kid, I thought. Then the Catholic girl from the couch bumped into me, “ Scuse me,” she giggled.
“A little preoccupied?”
“It’s so tight in here,” she giggled. “Everybody’s so packed in.”
“Yeah well; it promotes a relaxed atmosphere.”
“Is the door that way?” she asked, pointing behind me and trying to straighten out her clothes.
“Yeah, “ I answered, indicating the door behind me, now wide open from some stumbling jackass. “right there. You out past curfew?”
She laughed. “Yeah,” she answered. “Curfew. Ha. Gotta go. Will you be here tomorrow?”
“Doubtful.”
She shrugged, looked away. “Too bad,” she said. “My boyfriend says I can suck the chrome off a
“Lucky for your boyfriend.”
She laughed again, slapped me on the arm. “Yeah, I guess so. Bye-dee-bye, now.” She waved back at me like a fallen girl scout, stumbled through the crowd and out the front door.
I finally made it into the small kitchen, which wasn’t as crowded as the rest of the house. But it was still difficult to get through the stationary herd, oblivious and laughing at those party jokes that are only funny when everyone’s too fucked up. Eddie was sitting alone at the small circular kitchen table, with a bottle of imported beer and the minuscule roach of what appeared, by the sour expression on his face, to be an unsatisfactory joint. He actually owned the house.
He looked up, saw me standing there, and suddenly became animated. “Hey, you! YOU SON OF A BITCH!” He stood up and hugged me. “What’re you doin’ here?” He hit me in the chest. “You shoulda called and told me you were coming and I would’ve cleared out these assholes.”
We sat down. “You want a beer or something?” he asked. “Let me get you a good beer so you don’t end up with that cheap watered down shit they’re drinking.” He stood back up and started in the direction of the refrigerator to his left—or more appropriately, the crowd of people blocking the way to the refrigerator. “Hey!” he yelled. “Get the fuck out of the way!”
One of them, a kid barely old enough for his first shave squinted at Eddie and slurred “Whas’ the deal, man?”
“Are you deaf? Get the fuck outta the way. I need to get in the fridge. Scoot.”
“We’re not s’posed to get in there, man,” the kid said. “The guy who’s house this is...”
“It IS my house!” Eddie thundered, “All of you, out! There are other parts of the house to do nothing in. Go there. Clear the kitchen.”
“Geez, what’s his problem?” asked a girl wearing a black studded dog collar, tearing her drunken girlfriend off her left nipple so she could face him.
“OUT!”
The herd moved on, muttering and shaking their heads. Eddie watched them leave, an expression of pure contempt chiseled into his face. His eyes were set back in his head, ape-ish, neandrathalic, and I half expected him to follow after them with the baseball bat he kept under the sink. He shook his head, opened the fridge and pulled out a bottle of Guinness.
“Your favorite,” he said, “if I remember correctly.” He looked at me. “You’re still drinking piss water, aren’t you?”
“I drink what I can afford.”
He shook his head. “I just make sure I can afford what I drink.”
He was a booze snob. Besides the parties, that was his claim to fame. He never drank swill, no matter what. His beer and liquor was imported and expensive. He had the entire history of beer committed to memory. Back when I hung out on a regular basis, every night was a lesson in whatever brew he picked for the night. One night it was from
“Dude,” I said, “who are all these little idiots? You lower the entrance standards or something? Most of them are kids.”
“Don’t I know it.” His voice was full of self-pity. “Inconsiderate little piss ants, too.”
“Why are they here, if you don’t like them?”
He sipped his beer quietly, staring down in to the cheap panel board grain of the kitchen table. There were chicken feet etched into the corners of his eyes, and deep, black circles beneath them. He looked tired. If I hadn’t showed up, he’d still be sitting at the small circular kitchen table by himself, hoarding his imported beer and quality weed in silence, never saying a word to the house full of strangers that were fucking in his bed and tearing up his furniture. The kitchen table was his only refuge—the last piece of ground he had to stand on and defend He was the picture of a man drowning, trying to hold on to a life preserver.
“So what’re you doing?” he asked, attempting to be spirited. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”
“Same ol’,” I answered. “As little as possible.”
“You could head upstairs to the rumpus room,” he suggested. “You might find some friendly company up there.”
A picture of the kid I sent up there flashed in my mind. “Nah, that’s okay,” said, taking another drink. “I’m getting a little old for that Olympic class shit.”
He laughed. A little too hard. “Know what you mean, Bro,” he said, then grimaced. “Bunch a fuckin’ kids, anyway.”
“So why let them in?” I asked again. “What happened to the old crowd?”
“Moved on,” he answered. “Like you did.”
“Who the hell are these people? Do you even know any of them?”
He shrugged. “They came in with the old crew.” His voice had a note of drunken sadness in it.
Wistful, like some old drunk on a barstool in some bad made for TV drama. I felt sorry for him. He looked beaten up. Haggard.
“They came in with the old crew,” he repeated. “Then the old crew left.” He gestured out to the living room. “They’re the ones who stayed.”
“Do you know any of them?”
“No,” he answered. “They don’t even know it’s my house.”
“Then why let them in?”
He looked at me, his head half cocked, smiled the sad acquiescent smile. “If not for them, no one would be here.”
We talked some more, but the longer I sat the sadder I felt. I stuck around for one beer and a few more stories from way back when. The beer didn’t soothe my discomfort. Besides Eddie and the guy counting out ruffies for all the cute underage girls, I was the oldest one there.
I made some excuse to Eddie. I had somewhere to be, I told him. I suddenly remembered. He offered me more beer. He offered me a rare sip from his secret stash of single malts. Then a hit off his quality weed. He even tried to entice me with a piece of ass. “I’m sure she’s legal, dude, and she’ll do ANYTHING.” he insisted. The panic showed in his eyes. He didn’t want to be left alone in that house full of strangers. I didn’t blame him a bit. The thought even crossed my mind that I could invite him out and we could go downtown, get into trouble. But he’d never leave his house; that would be like admitting defeat. So I told him I’d call him and that I’d visit him again. I had no intention of doing either. I left out the back door to avoid having to wade through the kiddie pool. As I walked to my car, I could hear the noise coming from the house.
Somebody will call the cops soon, I thought. I didn’t look back.