Daydream Nation

“There is a username and password you can use for the learning portal.  Some student dropped the class but kept his username and password active.  Everyone uses it to check answers before you go ahead and turn them in on your own account,” says Mallory.  “I’ll write it down for you,” she goes back into her room and jots the information down on a post-it, comes back out and hands it to Allen.  

“Thanks,” he says.  There is only an hour left before the deadline for Physics-6A homework.  He folds up the note and tucks it into the pocket of his black jeans, next to a packet of loose tobacco.  This is a Saturday night that is going to be missed for both Mallory and Allen.  Save for smoke and coffee breaks.  They have gotten into the habit of missing meals by ingesting or smoking stimulants to suppress their appetites.  It saved time of having to go to the dining hall and actually eat.  Wasted meal plans.  There was also no time for exercise, so the breaks were how they stayed trim.  The undertaken travails of a B.S. degree.  

Mallory’s boyfriend, Marcus, is a colleague in her Bioinformatics class.  They live on the same hall at Porter College, the art dorms at UCSC.  They had both chosen the art dorms over the science-themed dorms just so they wouldn’t be constantly saturated in the subject.  At least at work you could leave your work home.  With Biochemistry, that is not the story.  Work is all the time.  The least Mallory and her boyfriend could do is be around more artistic, right-brain people in order to get some kind of relief from the rigors of science.  When not thrust into the 80 hours a week of studying, Mallory and her boyfriend, Jared, are thrusting into each other.  One could hear proof of this reverberating throughout the hallways of A4 North.  It is without shame or restraint.  It gets so loud that it is contested amongst other residents whether it is farcical or genuine.      

Allen has a mohawk and a closet and dresser of monochrome black.  He wears combat boots and a black hooded sweatshirt.  He is a cartoon character,  always wearing the same black outfit.  Everyday is the same.  He does this to save time on deciding what to wear.  The only variation is a white, gray or band t-shirt instead of a solid black one.  Otherwise, it is black all the time, like how Mick Jagger would lament.  Allen lives in a room with three other flatmates.  One a British DJ, another DJ from Clairemont, a middle-upper class LA neighborhood, and the third roommate a powerlifter.  Aside from their lofted beds with desks underneath with a workstation and a few posters on the walls, it doesn’t look like anyone had made the full leap of moving in all the way.  No additional furniture.  All four were doing either some kind of engineering or science and had pragmatically transferred from two year schools, having achieved associates in their respective discipline.  The room was at full capacity with the 4 people but it was manageable: all were either at study group or heavily caffeinated, intensely crunching out problems at their command centers.  

Aside from the peripheral couple of days at the beginning and end of the semester, the noise level was relatively low from this room.  When the semester was just beginning or ending or it was the eve of a break, the room blasted dance music from a turntable setup and became a makeshift dance club.  

“I’d better get back to it, then,” he says, fiddling with the rolled up ciggy behind his ear, placed under the bow of his glasses.  The shaved sides of his head are sprouting bristly stubs.  His other ear holds a uniball pen.

The rough, carpeted floors of A4 North are absent of vibrations.  No feet running around.  It is 10pm and calm.  One was either out or in their room for the night studying or decompressing.

20 feet away, the bathroom door opens.  A human peacock exits.  Hair glued into a fohawk; eye lined and sooty behind big, pink sunglasses; black lipstick; zebra-striped boa; polyester, flower-patterned shirt; low-cut, black, patent leather slacks; fur coat; maroon, sparkle platform shoes; black nail polish; three, thick, faux-jewel encrusted belts; chain wallet and spiked, purple leather bracelets.  To the extent that I wear skirts and cheap nylon slips, I've gone native.  I wanted to know the exact dimensions of hell.  But he was candy all over.  

Through many seasons of Rocky Horror Picture Show, thrift store trips to Haight Ashbury, visits to the lost-and-found bin in the drama department and one night stands, I had acquired a wardrobe resembling an amalgamation of T-Rex, The Cure and drag.  I don’t remember buying the leather pants.  Through the right woman with the same hip and waist size and her doing the walk of shame (without pants?), they became mine.  I had also gotten into the tacky habit of saving/stealing bras of said one-night stands.  Going one step further into impropriety, I adorned some of these on my dorm room walls, one even being the support on a Bjӧrk poster.  Many friends who had seen these additions pointed them out as tawdry, saying I was wearing my exploits on my sleeve.  I dismissed them, saying I merely thought they looked good on my wall.  I even lied, saying I had no idea how I came about them.  Though I would never admit it, my friends were right - the brassiers were trophies.  

“Oh look, it’s Ziggy Stardust,” Mallory says with a tone that suggests amicable eye-rolling.  “Are you giving it away for free or selling it?”  Fuck you!  Are you for sale?  Does "Fuck you" sound simple enough?  This was the only part that turned me on.  Allen didn’t even turn around.  He knew fully well who Mallory was talking to.  He smirked.  

“Let me check my wallet,” I reach into my back pocket, the chain making a soft jingle.  I open the butch, biker portefeuille, expecting moths to fly out.  Vacancy as usual.  “Yeah, no booze money.  How much do you think I can get for performing fellatio?”  Allen snort-laughs.  

“For you, midnight cowboy, you shouldn’t be soliciting at a college.”  He is now facing me, hands in his front pocket, bearing teeth.  I spot the cigarette rolled up and perched above his auricle.

“Speaking of cowboy,” I say, eyeing the roll, “do you have a spliff you could spare me, Marlboro Man?”  Hipsters: always trying to jam pack as many pop culture references into a conversation (or trousseau, as it were) as possible.  Internet intellectuals, rabbithole-ing their way through human interaction.  This was even the day before you could do that on wikipedia, for better or for worse.  No wonder our generation couldn’t sit through old movies - not enough cuts, jumps and edits.  Golden age of cinema required an attention span.  

“You can have this one,” he says, handing it to me.  I put it into a flowery pocket.  

“Thanks, sweet cheeks.  What are you guys up to tonight?”

“Fucking physics,” both said almost in unison.  Fucking physics - no one took plain Physics anymore.  “Where are you with it?”  Allen prods.  I could tell by his inquiries he isn’t quite finished yet.  

“Well, I ain’t dressed up for homework tonight.  I finished mine last night.  Gallivanting and philandering is the only reason I even do homework.”  Mallory looks down at her feet and digs her toe into the rough, purple and blue polyester.  Allan’s cheshire grin moves in a little and he looks somewhat to the side.  “Well, I’m sure there’s a trade-off - you guys will probably end up getting a better grade than me in this class.  For me, C’s get degrees.”  
“Where are you going?” Mallory asks, changing the subject.

“Friend’s 21st Birthday party.  One of my oldest friends.  Known him since the 6th grade.”

“Oh oh, don’t get into too much trouble.”

“I think I should tonight.  I think turning 21 will be the best thing that will happen to him.”  More on this later.  “Well, in either case, I should get going.  I have to meet someone downstairs.”  I go to my room, two doors down, pushing it open.  Normally the doors lock on their own.  I had rigged an old driver’s license into the door frame where the lock would normally insert.  This way my door is always open.  I did this for my friend across the hall, Roger, who would, for whatever reason, want to come into my room to get away from his taciturn roommate.

I reach around the corner inside of the door and grab my man purse.  Inside of it is a bottle of bacardi 190, a fourth of it already consumed.  I’ve already let the dog out of the cage tonight.  I’m warmed up.  The strap went over my right shoulder.  “Have a great night, you two, and don’t let the work get you down too much.  Downtime is good.”  

I open the door into the stairwell.  I pass by a window, catching a flash of sinful pulchritude.  I keep walking, turning around with the hand railing, eyes still fixing on the reflection, oblivious to the first step.  Not ready for the drop, I fall victim to gravity, jutting my other arm out to grab onto the railing on my left.  Platforms don’t help regain equilibrium.  I find my body go horizontally, one foot in front, both hands clutched desperately to the railing.  I stay suspended then begin to slowly walk the lagging leg forward.  I gradually get myself upright on to the lower step where the leading leg is.  Homo sapien once more.  Heart still galloping, I continue cautiously on my way down to the piazza.  
I'm downstairs from your window, your uh... Pub' phone booth, if you're up.

Aileen is already waiting down there for me.  Chances are she had been there much earlier than she needed to be.  She sat cross legged in doubled-up yoga pants, suede jacket, mittens.  Her curly hair tucked under a knit cap.  She looks as if she’s puffing smoke.  She is sitting on one of the wooden benches closest to the totem pole.  The pole quietly vociferous, towering three stories high, intricate with sharp contours from top to bottom, hanging over the quad area of the Porter dorms like a great spyre.  Art students in multicolored speckled skinny jeans and t-shirts walk by with easels and wooden art supply boxes, messy heads of hair contained under reversed hats.  A couple of punks sit on the stage opposite of Aileen and I, strumming “Free Bird” on acoustic guitars.  

I yell “hey” over to Aileen, who turns her whole body in my direction by pivoting on her behind.  Her legs catapult over the bench.  She smiles earnestly and runs over to hug me, leaving her plastic grocery bag of handles next to the bench.  She was always the more excited one to meet up.  I first thought that this was just the way she was with all people, especially friends.  The more I hung out with her, the real story is that I had a reserve for this extra chumminess.  With the mystery and mystique removed, her adorable face, yoga-toned body and glow had degraded in allure.  It made me more inclined to pinch her cheeks.  Nothing beyond that.

She embraces me, giggling.  Her arms held firmly around me, not giving me a chance to reciprocate.  The lock is a little long for me.  I don’t say anything, just give a “cheese” smile even though she can’t see it.  Her hands go flat and slowly rub up and down my back.  Her chest cavity expands and contracts, rise and then sink noticeably, deep sighs unfolding and embracing outward.  Finally she pulls back, scrunches up her nose and asks, “How are you?”

“I’m okay.”  I sigh too, thinking about my entire day in the dungeons of the Science Library, huddled over textbooks and white boards.  There are still dry-erase marker stains on my hands.  “I’m ready to get pissed.”  She smiles and nods, bearing only her top row of teeth.  

How I was never singled out for an inspection from campus security is beyond me.  “Let’s walk and talk.”  I make a link with Aileen’s arm as we walk towards the bus stop.  We pass by well-fed meadows where the squiggle sits, overlooking all of Monterey Bay.  It is a giant, winged sculptor made by one of the students in our dorms.  It is big enough to sit and lay out on and watch the sunset.  The sky is heavy with fog, the ambient air saturated and 50^oF.  Aileen is impressed with how well I am able to walk in the platforms.  Easier than high heels, I tell her.  I don’t tell her I’m already into the bottle.  We mutually exchange the events of our day.

She recaps the details of her vegan breakfast of tofu scramble, homemade bread, Yerba Mate latte with soy milk and fake bacon, all of the food sprinkled with Brewer’s Yeast.  She then had Bikram at 9 and then spent the rest of the day directing a stage production for a student-written play.  Those are hit or miss.  Sometimes there are gems but most of the time it was either something pseudo intellectual and contrived or earnestly playful, cute and endearing.  So either trying to be Samuel Beckett or Neil Simon.  ‘That’s right, I am familiar with playwrights, giving me the authority to look down on others’ works,’ I think to myself, when I should have been listening to Aileen.  Instead I interject something non sequitur.  “They can be a little full of themselves sometimes.”

“Who can?”

“‘Who can’ what?”

“I said that the stage lighting got too hot and it made one of the actors sweat and smear their make up.”  She looks over at me but I keep looking ahead as we descend the stairs.  I know Aileen - it was her “can you believe this fucking guy” look.  Not irritated but definitely annoyed but the way a parent would roll their eyes at their son’s ineptitudes.    

“Okay, you got me - I stopped paying attention at the point you started talking about...” I shift my glasses with my free hand. We are at the bus stop.  We are alone.  “Okay you got me again - I don’t remember that either.  I remember vegan breakfast, bikram yoga and the Invasion of the Body Surgeons.”  That was the play she was working on.  

“Is that why you wear sunglasses - so that no one sees your eyes going vacant as you start to drift onto a different topic in your head?”  She knows me too well.  

“Being my own advocate here, I don’t actually do it that often - hear me out,” I could tell she was going to stop me there with a bunch of counterexamples.  “I don’t do it any more often than other people.  It’s just that when I do it I let people know.  My brain is a little different.  Mine goes off on tangents and I mean in the most denoting way a tangent is: I’m still thinking in somewhat related ways about the subject but it’s kind of branching off of it.”

She’s looking at the bus schedule.  Just as this is happening, the right bus pulls up and swings opens its doors.  We get on and swipe our student IDs across the scanner and head all the way to the back of the bus, passing by a group of girls and couple of lone riders, their noses in books, another person on a cell phone, getting directions.  I sit in the corner near the window.  WIth the hiss of hydraulics, the doors close and the bus accelerates from its standstill, the baritone gasping of the engine lowly rumbling the seats.  Aileen slides up next to me and leans her head on me.  “What were you saying?”

“I don’t space out as much as the next person...”

“I know what you said.  I’m joking.  Unlike you, I listen.”       

“I fell for it.”

“What was the tangent then?”  I tell her about my thoughts of how there are only two types of plays that UCSC students could ever create.  I recite the cute shows of Planet of the Purple Pandas, Hello, Sex Kitty, Back to the Future: The Musical and then the pseudo-intellectual hogwash of Caesar Antichrist, Forgotten Caves, Angels of the Earth, etc.  Some of these were good but most of them forgettable.  There is a moment of pensiveness and then she finally agrees with me.  The bus stops and a group of men get on.  They split off into two groups of two.  Two of them are holding hands, sitting next to the window, looking out at the passing street lamps.  The other two on the opposite end of the aisle are looking into each other’s eyes, giggling, talking to each other with just mouth movements - sweet nothings - body language melting desire, arms grappling each other.  Like chameleons moving closer in steady, progressive sways, they draw closer and closer, still whispering, eyes closing gradually.  

I nudge Aileen, “That’s pretty hot,” I say, nodding my head in the direction of two boys who are now making out on the bus.  

“Don’t stare.”

“How can I not - they’re sitting right in front of me.”  

“Look out the window or at me.”

“My neck isn’t comfortable in either of those directions.”  

One of the girls from the group nearer to the front of the bus sees the couple making out.  She gets up, holding onto the railing nailed to the ceiling and carefully walks over, moving in opposition to the sway of the bus.  She gets to where the two boys are making out and taps on one of their shoulders.  

“Kurt, how are you?”  

Kurt looks up, surprised though not pleasantly so, as if his train of thought has just been derailed.  “Oh, I’m okay, Jessica, what’s up with you tonight?”  His partner looks back out at the opposite side of the bus, nonplussed.  Exchanges commence between Kurt and Jessica, the unfamiliar boy hanging on to Kurt, waiting for the pleasantries to be over.

After some superficial banter, she asks, “So what are you two doing out so late?” Jessica asks.  The two boys look at each other.    

“Well, we just met up at a party and we’re done for the night.”  says Kurt.

“So where are you going now?”

“Oh, you don’t want to know,” says Kurt.

“No, I do, why wouldn’t I?” Jessica reassures them with uncomfortable giggles.  Jessica has a lip piercing, industrial bars in her ears, a total hardcore look but with a giddiness that suggests a ditsy SoCal girl.  

“Well, if you must know,” the other boy says, “Kurt and I are going back to my place to have lots and lots of butt sex.  All night long.”  

Whatever Jessica’s intentions were, her smile goes into a jaw drop, as if she can’t believe what she’s hearing.  

“Yeah, pretty much,” Kurt agrees.  He looks at his boy with a drunken smile, and then back at her.  “Well, it was nice running into you Jessica, I’ll see you back at study group tomorrow, cool?”  

“Yeah, I guess...” but before she can finish, the boys are occupying each others’ mouths once more.

I’m engrossed, doing my best not to laugh out loud.  Quiet snorts are forcing their way out, bypassing my sealed lips.  I see the cross streets coming up for Ben’s house.  I stretch my arm up and pull the cord.  We slow down and pull up to the curb.  As Aileen and I are making our way off the bus, I yell behind me, “you two have a great night.”  The boy who I think is Kurt flips me off with shut eyes, not taking his lips away.  Jessica looks at me with a drooping, sad cat face.  I give her a shell wave and a slack-jawed smile.  She sneers, scrunching up her sad cat face.  She too flips me the bird.  

“Did you even know any of them?” Aileen asks.  

“No - why?” I already know why.  

“What on Earth is wrong with you?”  She takes my hand and then starts leading the way, then shakes her head in a hard left and then a right, then back to me.  “I don’t know why I’m leading you - you’re the one who knows where it is.”  I take the lead.

“There he is, finally!” Ben is wearing his party sombrero and a face thicket.  Or facial hair.  Whatever.  Everyone thinks they like beards now that everyone likes beards.  I’m not quite sure why I’m thinking snobbishly about Ben’s beard.

“This is Aileen,” I say.  I go to throw my fur coat and boa into his room along with Aileen’s suede jacket.  “

“Oh, this Ben!” Aileen says.  She gives him a hug and the bag full of booze.  Aileen is too nice - she was going to give those handles to a complete stranger’s 21st.  “We had some acting classes together!”  

“Yeah, what was that line you wrote for your short?”  He asks, clutching a wine glass in one hand the bottle of wine in the other.
            They both say in unison, “‘Now that I have a great face, hookers no longer scream when I choke them!’”  They both laugh heartily. The whole thing sounds too pressured to me.  Ben spills wine on his Hawaiian shirt but the damn thing is too colorful to notice.  It makes me wonder if there are other food or drink stains on it that I can’t discern, blended in with all the hibiscus, hula girls and palm trees.  I get somewhat embarrassed in spite of how I am already dressed.   

“How weird - that’s a very long phrase for both people to remember flawlessly and then recite on que.”  I tell them.  But this is the way I remember it.

“It was a good line,” Ben says.  He winces at me.  “Such a dick.”

“How is that being a dick?” I ask, finally reciprocating the shared laughter.  I look around the party and notice that I’m surrounded with a lot of people I know.  So much for the thought of spitting any game tonight.  I spot Chris, his girlfriend, Nina, Matt and an anonymous, cute, Mexican girl setting up what looks like beer pong.  I pull Aileen over with me.  Having arm candy like Aileen can help me with drawing jealous attention from this mystery Latina temptress.  I go to say hello to the people I know, introduce Aileen and then put on the extra charm to introduce myself to...

Oh shit, it’s Katy.  My line to the table has been bisected.   

“Jordan, I’m sorry for treating you the way I have.  But you're just so irritating sometimes.”  She blinks both eyes non-synchronously.  And I swear I hear unnecessary “sh”’s where there ought to be just a solid “s” sounds.  This is clearly artificial confidence.  I love this.  I’ve just walked through the door and am already having a booze-fueled confrontation.  Aileen is ahead of me now.  Smart girl.  She looks back at me with wide eyes, neck retracted, then her pupils turn upward and to the side. Then the rest of her body turns around to follow.  She walks to the kitchen.  Looks like I’m on my own on this one.

“Good to see you too... Katy?”  I haven’t seen this chick since the beginning of the year.  Evidently this might be because I’m irritating.  “How am I infuriating?  

“Just look at you?  Are you gay or straight?”

“What?  Has that really been bothering you?  I hope only for this evening.  I haven't seen you in months, why should this be annoying to you?”

“Just answer me - are you gay or straight?”   

“Am I only allowed those two choices?  Okay how about this - why don't you pick an answer and whichever one annoys you the most, that's what I am.  That way other people can keep bothering you and you don't have to do any kind of growing up.”  I turn away before anything else can be said.  If you want the last word, just walk away after you’ve had it.  

It’s incredible how I am able to go long periods of time without seeing this histrionic girl.  Somehow I have this kind of power over her while just being an disconnected abstract.  Without any consequence or real influence other than what she gives me.  It almost makes me feel like God.  Pleased with myself, I smile, half my face numb from intoxication.  I’m sure I drool a little bit from the corner of my mouth.  I take the largest sip from my bottle, pull it back and see that it’s half empty.  Je-sus!  I guess I really have been doing that much of a number on it tonight.  After all, half my face is numb.  Artificially-induced bell’s palsy.  That’s a first.
“She giving you shit for your... you?” Neil asks.  His eyes bloodshot.  Other than physical appearances, Neil held his own regardless of how much or what combination of drugs he consumes.  Real skillset building you get in higher education.

“Yep.  Weird.  One day the thought of me just started irritating her.”  

“You’re not alone on that one.  That’s why we’re not together anymore.”  

“When did that happen?”  

“Beginning of the school year.”  I think back to myself.  Had I not seen Neil since the end of summer?  No.  For some reason he never mentioned this.  Or he did and I just didn’t think about it.  That whole attention span thing I was discussing with Aileen earlier.  It’s possible Neil just hadn’t mentioned it to me; I know that I had seen him a number of times before this night.  We were great friends but he kept things to himself.  If he thought disclosure would be embarrassing, detrimental to his reputation, he wouldn’t share.  Which was surprising to me - the guy bragged about railing lines in the library off of a copy of James Joyce’s Ulysses.  And he tactlessly discussed intimate, physical details about him and Katy or his other sexual conquests.  Not that I was any better.  For some reason he thought his reservations of only telling closer friends gave him moral ascension.

Neil’s initial inquiry comes from his own reference point.  Apparently Katy was now dating a friend of his who was attending UC Davis.  Being passive aggressive, Neil casually referred to this friend as “what’s-his-name” to Katy.  This set her off at him and by association, I guess, me.  

“What kind of shit was she giving you,” he said, drinking from a water bottle.  Water.  That meant he was rolling. That’s the only time I ever saw him drink anything that wasn’t Kombucha or alcohol.  

“Oh, me, my sexual ambiguity, manner of dress.  ‘What d’ya got?’”  

Neil looks me up and down, shrugs and takes another drink of his water.  He looks at the rest of the room, nods and then swallows.  “Yeah...”  He flicks his tongue out over his lower lip.

“What?”  

He itches his neck scruff.  “You do have a tendency to draw attention to yourself that points out an insecurity.  You never used to dress or act this way in high school.  That’s what Anna complained about you once you got here in Freshman year.  That’s why she broke up with you.  Everything became sex sex sex.  It’s like that how you’re trying to find your identity.”

“Hey, Neil, ever hear the expression ‘those who mind don’t matter and those who matter don’t mind?’”

“Hey, Jordan, ever read the DSM?  Histrionic Personality Disorder.  Someone who reacts emotionally and disproportionately to stresses.  They also have a tendency to want to be the center of attention and find that attention and their self-worth through a flamboyant sexuality and physical appearance.”  

My heart accelerates a little.  

“Oh yeah, except that most of the time this disorder is reserved for women.  So I guess I can’t be referring to you.”  He emphasized “can’t” and “you.”  I skim through stock footage of all the time Neil and I stayed up late and raided each other’s dad’s liquor cabinets, skipped class to go riding our bikes at the skate park, camped out in parks with just sleeping bags, lazy canoe rides while high down the Russian River.  It all leads to here - this conversation.  It would be 9 years before I looked back on this and a whole inventory of like accusations with sober eyes.  All I can do is walk away.  “Bye, Neil.” ‘Don’t forget to mop up your melted brains from the floor.’  The sides of my head feels heavy, bearing down on my jaw, the top corners of where my mandible meets my skull tingles.  The back of my neck tightens.  I think back to the first five minutes of this party and compare it to the 8 hours of Physics homework.  I still have the 190 in my backpack.  I take it out and decapitate it, diving into the anodyne.  The hemlock.  Blackened.  Brazen.  Branded.  Burned.  Breath.

Hey, Joni, put it all behind you...she’s not thinking about the future, she’s not spinning her wheels, she doesn’t think at all about the past.

“Daniella,” she says.  Her eyelashes are lengthy, her eyes are conveying and ardent.  Her smile is giving, inviting.  I’ve already said hi to the other three I know at the table.  Aileen, the fifth, sips on a Sapporo.  You got it, yeah ride the silver rocket.  Beer pong.  I never liked drinking games.  Just drink.  It’s not sex.  Skip the foreplay.  Daniella, I’m doing this for you.  The game starts.  Rules are the same except we have the option of disrobing if we don’t want to drink.  This might actually be fun.  I decide I’m doing both. I’m still nursing the 190.  

It’s foggy outside and it’s foggy inside.  I’m reminiscing about the time Neil also labeled me a monster.  His words.  I burp furtively, smelling the ethanol as it seeps out of my nostrils.  My stomach folds in on itself.  This should be a warning sign to me but I keep a tight grip around the neck.

A ball goes into the cup on my side.  It splashes.  Beer clings slightly on the white inside, slowly crawling back down.  That’s me.  I lose the shirt but keep the sunglasses on.  Can’t lose those this soon in the game.  

The ball keeps oscillating, landing or missing.  Clothes come off, PBR gets guzzled.  You guzzle PBR because neither are refined.  Before I know it, Aileen, my teammate, is down to her spandex and sports bra.  It’s a welcomed agitation.  I still have my sunglasses on so she can’t see that I’m eyeing her.  I look down at the pile of clothes on the floor.  Shoes, shirt, socks, belts off.  I don’t know if the heater is on or I’ve consumed a Russian quantity of vasodilating swill.  I put my hand around Aileen’s hip.  She jumps a little, draws a sheepish smile and looks at me from the side, then goes back to prepping her toss.  Close your eyes and make believe, you can do whatever you please.  My mistake.  Should have noticed she was in mid throw when I did that.  I take my hand away and see Ben approaching from the opposite side of the table.  We’re in the kitchen, a small crowd watching the game.  The rest of the party is out in the living room, nearest the far end of the table.  A nameless Weezer song is playing.  I can’t make it out but I hear Rivers Cuomo singing something about Beverly Hills.  

“Jordan, get over here.”  I walked over to Ben, 190 still in hand.  I plunge and then swing it back down.  I close one eye and notice a better resolution of everything in view.  I’m there.  The more I drank, the more I can handle larger gulps.  A positive feedback cycle: I drink more so I can drink more.  

Ben was prone to fidgeting and grabbing at his forehead with agitation.  This was one of those moments. “What are you doing?”

“What do you mean?” I feel like I’ve been asking this question a lot tonight.  I’m in just the patent leather pants, boa and sunglasses.  Everything else is a phalanx on the floor.  

“How did I know you’d be the first one to get naked at the party?”  

“You’re just lucky I guess.”  He’s standing next to the refrigerator, still cradling the bottle and poised with the wine glass, arms crossed over like a burial, completely erect posture.  “All right back up.  First of all, I’m clearly not naked.  Secondly, wasn’t my idea.  There was a game and I decided to play it.  Thirdly, Chris is way more naked than I am.”  

Ben grabs his forehead.  Check that one.  “Right right right, sorry, I overreacted.  Just don’t get naked.”

”Hey, again, man, you’d better have that conversation with Chris - way closer to being naked than me.  Hey hey hey - happy birthday man.  Chillax, enjoy, drink, carousel and merry-making.  I’m the least of your worries - “

“Hey, who brought the wild boar?”  I hear a girl’s voice yelling from somewhere in the house.  I’ve never heard of wild boar.  But then I’m not really one for labels.  Once the initial drinks set in, there’s no sense in being picky.  Which reminds me - Aileen and the game.  I go back over, rudely trying to avoid any more possible clashes with Ben while he’s off, looking for whoever yelled out across his apartment.  Tonight is proof that being passive is no guarantee of avoiding reprehension.  Even neutral countries get invaded.  But I’m back at the table, Aileen is gone.  I don’t know where my teammate is.

“We’re paused,” Chris says, Nina latched onto him like a Koala.  She’s in a bra and panties.  Ben stays quiet about her.  I ask why we are paused.  Aileen is in the living room, petting what I initially believe to be a dog.  I don’t have my proper glasses on.  I squint both eyes.  Clarity is delivered.  It’s a wild boar.  'Who brought the wild boar?’ someone asked.  And of course it was an actual wild boar.  Anything seems reasonable now.  The boar is wearing sunglasses and a conical party hat.  I wonder if this was some kind of Equinox celebration and we’re going to slaughter the boar for a BBQ.  But then I remember that isn't it at all.  The boar somehow made its way into the party and didn’t BIOB.  As long as it stays calm and doesn’t drink my booze.  Aileen isn’t spooked.  I crouch next to her and the beast.  No one else seems to notice that this 200 lb. wild animal just chilling in the living room and calmly letting Aileen pet it.  So I follow suit.  I scratch the animal behind its ear.  It turns its nose up, snorting lightly.  

“So, yeah, who do you know here?”

“Just you and Ben,” Aileen says.

“No, I was talking to...”

“What the heck?”  This must be Ben.  He didn’t and doesn’t curse.  That’s how I know it’s him.  His word is “heck” but his pitch and amplitude say “fuck.”  Definitely at least “hell.”  I turn around slowly, considering the animal.  “How the hell” - there it is - “did this thing get in here and how come no one is doing anything about it?”  I assure him to keep the volume down.  The thing is docile and so let’s keep it that way, please.  I’m surprised it hasn’t gone berserk with the din from the party.  But it is staying even-keeled.  Snowball stays chill.  But like a dog, it rolls over onto it’s side, wanting what I think is a belly scratch.  I acquiesce.  Surprisingly clean for a pig.  Though I remember what I learned in Future Farmers of America: pigs are actually very hygienic.  More so than dogs.  Same with intelligence.  

“I want this fucking” - whoa there - “thing out of here!  Someone call animal control!”  Pig stirs a little.  I keep patting it’s stomach, hoping to keep it serene.  Neil comes staggering over like an assassin, conducting his water bottle.  He drops his brow at the sight of the boar and me huddled down next to it with Aileen.  

“Who the hell brought this filth?  And what’s with the pig?”  Rimshot!  The swine stirs with a little more vigor, kicking its hind legs slightly.  Katy also staggers her way in close proximity with the pig.  

“Are we slaughtering this thing or what?  What’s the point of this pig?  Is it a pet or is it dinner?”  It’s a mystery why there is so much animosity towards an innocuous animal.  

“Maybe you guys can take a lesson from pig and just chill the f- out .  Pig doesn’t care.  Pig just wants to have drink, smoke and chill.”  Pig snorts and kicks its legs again, whipping his head up and down.  “See, pig wants you to be cool.”  I slide it’s party hat down, giving him a rhino look.  

“Pig unicorn!” Aileen squeals. “So cute!”

“That thing is unpredictable and dangerous.  I’m calling animal control.”  Ben zigzags towards his room.  Everyone’s jackets and outerwear is piled on the bed.  Ben grabs his phone and flops on the bed, spilling clothes over.  He dials, stands back up without much regard for gravity.  With a hand out, he loads the vulnerable middle part of the table.  Catastrophes usually happen in slow motion.  I would think even more so when the cerebellum is strongly inhibited.  But I witness all of this happen at its regular speed, making it look that much worse.  The table splits in half, the hutch, computer monitor, keyboard, books, paper tray all coming down at once and on top of Ben.  Ooh.  That’s embarrassing.  The commotion is enough to disrupt the party.  Cue the needle scratching the vinyl.  

Without skipping a beat, pig unicorn scrambles to his feet and runs under the beer pong table.  Matt is on the side of his path but ends up stumbling into the beer pong table anyway.  He too pulls a Ben and falls right in the middle, the cups of beer catapulting into the peripheries, trajectories at the surrounding crowd.  Matt careens, right onto innocent pig unicorn.  It is hearty and seems okay but then runs for the coffee table in the living room for a different refuge.  Again, everyone freaks out at the barrelling hog and runs in opposite directions, knocking over lamps, stools, tripping over the couch, shoes at the door way.  Within a matter of less than a minute the house is in shambles.  And this wasn’t even because of the party.  

Ben has gotten up and sobered slightly from his accident. He witnesses the total decimation of the house.  He walks out into the kitchen and surveys the damage, eyes as wide as harvest moons.  He grabs his forehead.  You can double check that classic Ben move.  “Jordan!  Get over here!”  He yells.  Pig unicorn is cowering and shivering under the coffee table.  The music is still going.  Ben Folds is singing about rocking and rolling in the white, middle class part of his hometown.

Aileen and I haven’t moved from where we were petting the pig before.  It all happened too fast.  I’m still barefoot and in patent leather and sunglasses.  I walk a sober line towards Ben’s bedroom and its wreckage of office supplies.  Using all mental effort to keep my balance, I go to the bed to grab my stuff.  Ben is spewing burrs and thorns but I’m already beyond the horizon, far from care and cognition.  I’m getting dressed.  His harvest moons still out, his mouth rapid firing. It’s all muted to me.  I hear muffled yelling as if being smothered with a pillow.  I’m making eye contact but that’s the only sense organ that’s receptive right now.  I can’t smell or taste the alcohol fumes percolating up from my gullet, feel the warmth of my clothes or hear the censure.  I turn around to the door, Aileen’s suede and fur jacket in hand.  Neil and Katy are at the door.  They don’t seem pleased.  They’re pantomiming anger and frustration at me.  I say the pig wasn’t mine.  I don’t even hear my own words.  Chances are they don’t either.  They keep rattling off.  I clear a path out of Ben’s room by pushing them both forcefully out of the way.  I step-by-step my way over to Aileen who is now at the coffee table, trying to reassure the pig.  I hand off her coat, 190 still in hand.  I’m about to invite another mouthful of it in but veto that idea.  I place the bottle gently on the opaque surface.

I think I say “let’s get out of here.”  Being like this forever is not a possibility that bothers me.  I pat my thigh and pig unicorn reluctantly comes out from under the table.  I grab Aileen’s hand and we both exit, the remaining onlookers gawking at our every move.  I want to know, I think I better go. 

We walk towards the bus stop but I decide against waiting for it.  I tell her I want to walk to her place.  She says it’s 2 miles away.  A 30 minute walk.  I need to raise my metabolism somehow and break down this hard shit.  My hearing is back.  

The three of us walk placidly in unexpected comfort.  Pig is trotting in front of us, occasionally snorting and looking back at us with a lateral movement of the neck, it’s eyes on the side of its head.  I’m a little more with it but I feel the 190 hitting the ejection button from the cockpit.  

“Aileen, I’m going to vomit and I don’t have a toothbrush.”  I say.  

“So vomit,” she says.  

“I want to kiss you first,” I say.  “If that’s okay.”

“It’s okay to want to kiss me,” she says.  

“That’s not what I meant.  I’m trying to ask you if I can kiss you.”

“I know what you meant.  I’m just giving you a hard time.”  We’re still walking but she, in one fluid movement, abruptly puts on the breaks, pulls my head into hers in and sticks her tongue into my mouth.  My other hand is by my side for a moment, shocked by the ease.  But then I hold on to her tiny waist.  We stay in comforted silence more, just as we were with the walk.  It’s a lot of tongue and saliva but I’m still beyond concern.  I feel her cheeks, taste buds, teeth.  The small of her back is fragile in my grasp. Pig unicorn is stopped and rooting in someone’s lawn.  I'm high and inside your kiss.

After feeling satisfied, I pull away and promptly evacuate next to pig unicorn.  He/she/it is apathetic, soil and grass-caked nose shovelling to turn over dirt.  Just like the walk and the kiss, the purging is comfortable.  Not cathartic, just pleasant.  I finish, huffing and puffing, dizzy from hypoxia but feeling helium.  Aileen comes back in.  

“Are you sure you want to do that - my mouth is nasty.”  

“I don’t care,” she says, breathy, sultry.  

“If you say so...” my mouth is sealed.               

                       

I wake up in a bed that’s not mine.  Aileen’s.  I feel the insides of my thighs rubbing each other with no intervening pants.  No underwear even.  Red lines on the alarm clock assemble into numbers.  I’m sewing and gluing together my attention and focus.  9:13.  Not bad.  The day is nascent.  I turn over, hoping to see Aileen.  Vacant space.  Just like my wallet and just as disheartening.  So much for recreation of the post-party events.  Now how will I jar my memory?

But the door opens.  She comes in with just bottoms.  She gets into the bed next to me and curls up by my side.  

“Um, did we remember to wear...”

“Hmmm..?”

“Protection?”

“No, we didn’t need to.”  

“Oh?”

“Yeah, we just made out.  That was all.”

“I didn’t try anything, did I?”

“You did but I stopped you.”

“I see.”  The ceiling has the millions of small stalactites.  There’s a crack in one of the corners.  Aileen’s paintings are all over the room.  Books over-occupy the shelves, drawers are billowing out in cumuli of clothings.  Her chair is a heap of dirty laundry, a half finished watercolor art project is on the floor with a spilled over bottle of glitter.  A dirty dish, some cutlery and a glass are on her desk next to a monitor displaying a fish tank screensaver.  

“I didn’t press it, did I...?”

“No, you backed off like you normally do.”

“Okay, good.”    

“I let you sleep in my bed for a reason.”  

“Why?”

“I trust you.  You’re a good friend.  And a good kisser.”

“Thanks.  So are you.”  Something is missing.  “Where’s pig unicorn?”

“You don’t remember?”  It all comes back to me.  

We were outside of her apartment building trying to find the right keys.  I stand with legs on either side of the boar, scratching behind his ears.  I have to squat down lower because  of the platforms.  There's a park across the street with empty monkey bars, swings, slides.   The area immersed in fog from the grass.  The merry go round is turning slowly, being pushed by wraiths.

Our old friend Jessica from the bus comes out of nowhere and walks up to the apartment building.  She’s not wearing high heels but she’s walking as if she is and for the first time.  Her heavy eyeliner is smeared, streaked and highlighted hair in that mess of a freshly fornicated look.  I wonder what she was up to.  

“How was the rest of your night?  It looks like you kind of went the same route as Kurt.  Or Kirk, whatever his name was.”  Jessica looks over at me, startled.  She squints her eyes.

“Do I know you?”

“Yeah, we go way back, like...” I lift my wrist which doesn’t have a watch on it.  “3.5 hours.”
            “Is that a pig?”  She asks.  Evidently Jessica was beauty and brains.  

“Yes.”

“Is it your pig.”  She’s speaks with a slackened jaw.  

“No, not really,” Aileen responds, still trying to fit the right keys the right way into the lock.  She finally gets a match.  

“Can I ride him?” Jessica asks.  

“Uh, you can try,” I respond.

Jessica approaches pig and I move away.  She straddles him in such a way that she accidentally gets on facing the rear.  She slumps forward and then sits back up, dismounts and tries again.  There we go.  She has her legs flexed, squeezing the corpulent swine between her thighs.  Pig rears as high as it can, Jessica leans forward to counterbalance, grabs pig’s ears and then races off down the street, shrinking and shrinking until she turns a corner.  I speculate she’s on her way to Highway 1 and maybe as far as San Francisco.   

  

“You want breakfast, chum?”

“Sure.”  

Aileen gets out of bed, still topless and goes out to the kitchen.  I’m still bare.  The apartment doesn’t feel warm but that’s not enough to stop me from going in the buff.  I get out of bed and follow her into the kitchen, feeling warmth in other ways.      

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