When I have a party I don’t fuck around. We had to modify Ashley’s house a bit.
I mean it was our party. But certain touches were just mine. Like the disco ball. And the strobe lights. And the blacklight room. And the bong, with a funnel at the top and a bunch of plastic tubing we bought at Home Depot. That bong was a motherfucker. You’d pour—whatever—in the top and it would slide down this one-inch plastic tubing, swirling around this pole in Ashley’s kitchen, and at the bottom—you’d have to lie on he floor to get it—you’d open your mouth and in would slide your shot, or your beer, or whatever you were drinking.
The blacklight room was for sex-only. It was designed to be an orgy room. Everything in there was meant to inspire sex. We’ll see how it goes.
What else? The bathrooms were all done out, decorations on the mirrors and shit. There was a makeout closet—Ashley’s walk-in closet. It was labeled “Makeout room” or something equally obvious. You don’t want to be putting complex instructions on your party. “Makeout room” is simple enough. You can read that and understand it when you’re drunk. Also: on the invitations: “Wear something naughty”. A five-year-old could understand. That was all our flyer said on the front: “the Naughty [date and time ] [location]” and “Wear something naughty”.
This is what people wore:
(Some people dressed heavenly.) Janel was one of those. She rolled in early; she was one of the first to get here. Janel’s idea of naughty was something like a lingere angel. I didn’t think it was all that naughty but it was naught-tay. Ash was in the kitchen, I open the door, Janel comes in, the house is mostly still empty. Ash and Janel see each other, I know this is going to be a rough night.
“Janel! Glad you’re here!” (Slight kiss on the cheek.)
“I brought these,” she says. She’s got two bottles, a Jamison and some potato vodka I’ve never heard of. “It’s Russian.”
“Really? Janel this is Ash, Ashley, this is my friend Janel.”
Ash stays seated on her kitchen counter. “And how did you two meet?”
“Really? That’s Russian? I didn’t know Russians made potato vodka.”
“Or it might be Slovenian,” she says. She twists the bottle in her hand. She looks very, very good.
(Some people dressed normally.) I mean normally for “naughty”. These would be people like Brickman, from work, and like Karen, from work. Karen comes in she’s got her mouth hanging open like she’s at the dentist. She’s always like that.
“Is there cotton in your mouth?”
“What?”
“Close your mouth. Is there cotton in the back of your throat?”
“What?”
I put my arm around her and bring her into the house. “Come here, come here, there’s the kitchen, have a drink. Ashley’s in there.”
Karen shows me some Bud Lights. “We brought these.”
“Put em in the kitchen. Where’s Gao? There he is. Gao. What the fuck is up with you?”
“Nothin.”
“Hong.”
“Matthew.”
“Hong Yang!”
“Matthew!” Gao leans in close. “Do you have any ecstasy?”
“What?” I pretend not to hear him.
He whispers in my ear. “I heard there was gonna be ecstasy at this party.”
I put my hand on his head. “Hong Yang.” I kiss his forehead. “Come do a shot with me. Brickman, get your ass in here. What the fuck. I thought you were gonna bring your wife.”
(Some people dressed freakishly.) That would be Elizabeth Ronstadt—Zombie Lizard? These girls show up. This is Zombie, Mental Jiant and that girl Brooklyn. Yeah. Zombie shows up in desert camo pants, combat boots, and a white bra, drenched in blood. Mental Jiant is smearing the blood on Zombie’s stomach when I open the door to let them in. MJ is dressed as a flasher. When I open the door, she straightens from Zombie’s belly and opens a beige trenchcoat. She’s completely naked. Sweaty little clam. She closes the coat and pulls down a dark pair of shades, overly-dark. And Brooklyn. Brooklyn. It’s not like we had this party in January, but still. Brooklyn is wearing electrical tape on her nipples—two little Xs—and a white pair of panties..and that’s it.
There were those types of people. There were those that dressed heavenly, there were those that dressed normally, there were those that dressed freakishly. And then there were other kinds of people.
(There were those who dressed devilishly.) Well, there was one who dressed devilishly. Actually she dressed as the devil. But a naughty sort of devil. And it was this one that I liked the best.
I’ve told you all I’ve told you, up to this point, not so you’ll think I’m a womanizer—by today’s standards I’m not—but so that you know what this story is about. This isn’t about my job. It isn’t about my using drugs. It’s about my love. And I had imagined love, held concepts of love, even thought I’d been in love..but before that night I had never had the chance to love. Of course I’d loved my family, I’d loved my friends, I’d even loved my job and in a way I’d loved drugs and books and exercise. I’d loved apartments I’d lived in. I have this chair I love. And I’d loved women—loved their bodies, even loved their minds. Even—and this is true—even loved their emotions, even loved their person-ality, their chaos and their little quirks like wanting to see a nine o’clock movie and leaving the house at eight forty-five. (That was Ashley.) But before that night I’d never been in love, and that’s the kind of love I’m talking about here. Did she sweep me off my heels? Not really; I’m a guy, we don’t really get swept off our heels. Did she blow my mind? It’s more like she blew my spirit. I just never knew anyone like that existed. I spend my whole life acting—pretending to like people. I don’t even know I do it—at least I didn’t before I met her. It’s like you’re having these conversations, and you’re dialing yourself down to deal with whatever the person is telling you, whatever thing they’re going through, but without even thinking, you’ve filtered out the great and wild and real you, and you’re just dealing with them in the way that they need to be dealt with. Because all they want to talk about is work—or all they can talk about is work. Or dance. Or improv. Or painting. Or sports, television, and all that shit. I don’t care about the weather. I don’t care about traffic. I don’t care that the show was so goddamn funny last night. It wasn’t. It wasn’t funny. It wasn’t scary. It wasn’t great. And it never is with people.
Except..eventually..when you meet the right person..it is.