Part Three!
The house was a robin's egg blue pseudo-Victorian place, complete with four or five pillars on the ostentatious wrap-around front porch holding up an over-sized balcony. Both the building and the street were far too nice for the seven or eight college kids who, with their combined income of tips and shitty service industry jobs, could barely scrape together rent every month. Ryan, Whitney, Dan and Paul knew this wouldn't last long as a party space; these arrangements never did. Soon the couples on whom making rent depended on would start fighting, someone's drug problem would surface, a fire would break out, a room mate would wind up in jail. However, this was one of the rare opportunities where the group of friends had actually been invited to a house show here before everyone was out of hope, out of drugs, and out of money.
Much of the car ride over from across the river had been spent discussing how this is one of those rare, epic house parties that was actually at a nice place. Where the people weren't too fried and hopeless, where the booze flowed freely and everyone was beautiful. In the friend's combined imaginations this night became almost mythological in its magnitude, and its impossibility.
This was to be one of those parties that the rich, pretty girls from up town heard about. They would arrive, all chemical hair and endless legs, hoarding a fifth or two of vodka between themselves. Using their tits to their best advantage in order to get whatever they could. They would communicate with hair-flips, the Morse code click of stiletto heels, and giggles politely hidden behind manicured nails. The young men, meanwhile, would have their own communication of rough housing, keg stands, and trying desperately to get enough booze between those lip-sticked mouths to get the selfsame mouths around their cocks, to get those heels into the air.
It was to be one of those parties where something wound up on fire in the front lawn. Where someone fell through a window, and the party continued around and through the broken glass and scraped hands. Texts from this night would be featured on blogs, "I woke up covered in Cheetohs," "He spent the whole night speaking only through barking. That drunk," "I still don't understand how she fit so many ping pong balls inside of her, or how she shot them so far."
There were to be fire works, fist fights, and fantastic drunk sex this night with gorgeous strangers. Exes who happened to show up would be snubbed with poise, grace, and creativity. None of the friends would wind up a puking, crying, or violent mess. Not this time.
The telling of this tale, which began as the friends loaded into Ryan's car and started packing the night's first bowl, only slowed its excited, rollicking pace after the fourth or fifth unexpected change in route due to construction, or broken pipes, or intersections blocked off by chain link fences surrounding weird white-tent festivals. As Ryan parked the car and the friends loaded out, each re-imagined these fanciful visions of bottomless bottles of booze, perfectly executed dance moves, and endless attractive, interesting, attracted, interested suitors.
They smiled at each other across the top of the car, rain and crazy hobos momentarily forgotten. Tonight was theirs, for none of them had work the next morning, babysitters to pay, or significant others to appease, as more of their friends seemed to every year. This night they were young, they were beautiful, and they were free.
The group of friends practically strutted to the front porch, over which someone had hung up a strand of white Christmas lights. Their implied cheer seemed somehow out of place surrounded by bored hipsters pounding cheap liquor. They blinked on and off at random intervals as the rain slowly turned the lawn into mud.
Some clever young artiste had lined up beer bottles along the front railing and filled them with various twigs, wilted flowers, and household accoutrements.
Already some shabby furniture, likely acquired from the side of the road next to some old bald tires and a "Free" sign, provided seating for the handful of people lounging on the front porch smoking cigarettes. They were droning about some show that had been shut down by the cops.
"Yeah, I just ran. I had to hide in this... Garbage. Thing," A young woman with lanky, bright red hair that hung down past her shoulders was saying. She wore a shapeless, black sequined dress that stopped well above her knees, thick black leggings, and silver ankle length pointed-toe boots. She fiddled with a grape stem bare of all but one very tenacious, very shriveled grape which had been stuck in one of the beer bottles. Her lashes lowered, expressionless.
"Like a dumpster?" Asked a young man sitting in one of the armchairs and wearing a Pabst Blue Ribbon trucker cap with the bill turned up. He was picking the stuffing out of the arm rest, dropping it on the wood planks of the porch. Disinterestedly, he brushed some stray stuffing from his flannel.
The girl who had hidden in garbage noticed the friends as their footsteps caused a board on the front porch to squeak. She looked up from her grape stem and stared at them, curling a bright red lip in a sneer and arching one pencil-thin eyebrow. "No," she said, still staring at the friends, "It was... Something. Else." She turned away, flicking her cigarette butt off the porch and stepping away from the railing.
PBR hat noticed the newcomers. He stared at them vacantly. The blankness of his gaze had such a weight and heft to it that the hopes for just how good this night was to be for the friends began to deflate a little.
"Hi," Whitney said, smiling, "I'm Whitney."
PBR Hat scratched his beard.
"Matt's friend?" She added hopefully.
"Oh, my room mate Matt?"
"Um, I guess so," Whitney faltered, "Red hair? Big beard?" She held up her hands to indicate the size of the beard.
"Oh, yeah! Yeah! That's my room mate!" PBR Hat smiled for a second, then appeared confused, "How do you know Matt?"
"We went to University together? We lived on the same floor of the dorms. I'm pretty sure I've met you, actually."
Dan shifted the 30-rack of beers he was carrying awkwardly in his arms behind her. The beers clanked together. The red head glowered at him.
Dan shrugged, "Want a beer?"
She turned her head, pretending not to have heard. Digging another cigarette from her pack, she suddenly struck up another droning conversation with a young man lounging in a dangerous-looking whicker chair, nursing a beer and sporting a rather impressive black eye.
PBR hat appeared not to notice this exchange, "So you're one of his dorm friends, I see."
"Yes, I guess so. And you're Dwayne, right?"
PBR hat suddenly seemed suspicious, "How do know that?"
"We've met, actually. Several times," Whitney said, glancing at Dan who had shifted the case of beer again.
"This shit is digging into my hands," he whispered, wincing.
Dwayne finally seemed to notice him, "So these are your friends?" He blinked hazily at the men grouped behind her on the porch.
"Yes."
Dwayne nodded, leaning back in his chair and stroking his beard. Presently he began to pick at the stuffing of the chair again.
"Look, is there anywhere I can put these?" Dan asked.
"Oh, uh, just put them in... The fridge?" He shook his head.
"Let's just go inside," Whitney mumbled to Ryan and Dan, crowded behind her on the porch steps. Paul had already somehow maneuvered himself next to the moody red head. He didn’t look at her, but instead played with a red feather in one of the beer bottles.
Her attention was focused on his back and she could have actually been smiling a little. It was hard to tell in the flickering light of the Christmas lights.
Whitney raised her voice, smiling widely, "It was nice to see you again, Dwayne!"
She waited a moment for some response, holding her smile, nodding, and feeling very stupid. Finally Dan, Ryan and Whitney filed in. Dwayne stared blankly after them.
"I think I'm gonna stay out here," Paul called after them, "I want a cigarette."
As the screen door shut behind the three friends Paul could be heard offering Dwayne an IPA from a six-pack he had brought and inquiring about the beer bottle collection.
"I like what you've done here," he said, as the screen door banged shut.