Parties

You can be at certain parties and not really be there. You can entrench yourself in the clinks of glassware, the gassy pops of beer opening, and the dull hum of polite conversation, yet still remain an object apart — less parasitic than commensal — they don’t need you and you don’t need them. Some people find solitude at parties excruciatingly sad, like a bird with clipped wings, but others (myself included) need that little bit of isolation to regain the social energy necessary to engage in more banal conversation about health food prep, Presidential politics, and reasons why America is in such steep decline.

For myself, at 1622 Pine St in East Hills, surrounded by girls dressed in the current fashion of sweaters that more resemble afghans than clothing and boys wearing tight dark jeans with shirtsleeves rolled up to reveal geometric tattoos of nature scenes or skyscape, I am proudly alone and planning my swift departure should the hostess ever return from the bathroom. Invited to the party out of what I can only assume was her moral prerogative upon seeing me eating alone at the Chinese restaurant where she works, the demure hostess with big brassy eyes has been indisposed for about an hour with either explosive diarrhea or projectile vomiting because the music (which she’s been controlling from the bathroom) has gotten incrementally louder over the last half hour and an increasing chorus of her girlfriends has tried without success to open the door. Being that I knew only one person at the party and she was it, I’ve found a fondness for the iguana she keeps in a hollowed out china cabinet next to the kitchen. The last six people I’ve asked did not know the name of the iguana but if I know my American women, it’s named after some teen saga character.

‘I see you’ve met Harry’ says the hostess, touching my back as she passes, a little flushed in the face and with a slight gait to her walk.

‘Yes, we introduced ourselves already, thank you’ I said, which she found extraordinarily funny.

‘Sorry, I’ve been on the phone with my mom for the past hour’ she said with her back to me, pouring herself a healthy shot of Jameson and turning to offer some to me.

‘No thanks, I’m about to head out’ I said.

‘Oh please, stay’ she said, laying on the guilt.

‘Harry and I do get along quite well’ I said, placing the docile iguana on my shoulder.

Her face brightened into a smile and she handed me a shot.

‘To new friends’ she said, and downed her shot which was noticeably more full than my own.

‘To new friends’ I said laughing at her grimace.

‘Sorry, not used to this stuff’ she said.

‘You have almost a whole handle of it’ I said, eyeing the gargantuan bottle on her countertop.

‘My ex worked for a distributor’ she said evenly.

‘Ah, mine was just a drunk’ I said flatly in return.

She laughed and grabbed my arm. ‘Another?’