We go into Libby’s Liquor to get a few six packs for the party. Despite our jackets flapping open to reveal our ludicrous outfits, the clerk barely glances at us.
The Lunar Haus is a stone cottage set at the top of a steep hill that looks like it would be more at home in Middle Earth than in Jamaica Plain. The hosts have taken the party theme seriously: walking in is like being transported to an enchanted garden whose decorators were overly fond of hallucinogens. The living room ceiling is a canopy of twigs dotted with tiny colored lights, the walls are covered in antlers and ornate gilded mirrors of varying sizes, the floor is a carpet of fake grass. Most furniture has been pushed to the sides of the room to leave the center free for a mound of flower-shaped cushions surrounded by stools padded to look like mushrooms. The air is thick with the smell of lemongrass incense and weed.
“Welcome to a beautiful evening, beautiful people,” Kaya, one of the Lunar Haus residents, greets us. She’s in an iridescent bikini, her pale skin speckled with pink glitter, and wears a wreath woven through with ribbons trailing down to the floor.
“You have to try some punch,” she says. “We have two kinds, red and blue.” She points to a table with placards in front of each punchbowl, one labeled, ‘DRINK ME’ the other, ‘DRINK ME TOO.’ That’s helpful. There are also platters of small cakes that say ‘EAT ME’ and lollipops tagged, ‘LICK ME.’
“Before you drink either of those, you should know something,” Daphne warns us.
“Let me guess, the punches are spiked?” Sally laughs and helps herself to a ladleful of crimson liquid.
“Indeed they are. Is this the trippy one?” Daphne asks Kaya.
“No, the touchy-feely one.”
“Even better.” Sally grins at Zak and pours him a cup.
“Are you sure you’re okay doing this?” he asks her.
“I don’t know, you might want to keep an eye on me.” She links her arm through his. “Who knows what kind of things I might decide to touch and feel?” He throws a nervous glance over his shoulder at us, and they go off to explore the party together. Sally is such a different person when she’s single . . . especially suddenly single, when her wilder self rushes in to make up for lost time.
I turn to Daphne. “I don’t know how she gets away with it. If I said that to a guy, he’d think I was trying too hard to be sexy. She says stuff like that all the time and guys find it charming.”
“Probably not the kind of guys you’d want to be with. Except for Zak, but he’s got a soft spot for off-kilter, bitchy girls. No offense to your friend. Takes one to know one.” She shrugs, at peace with her prickly nature.
“None taken. I should probably worry more about Zak than her. If you’re weird about it, I can make sure Sally behaves.” That’s a lie. I can rarely make her behave.
“Eh, Zak and I hook up once in a while, but it’s a no strings/no jealousy arrangement. You know the deal.” Actually, I don’t. I’d never agree to such a deal. I prefer strings. “Don’t worry, I’m sure he’ll smother her with his affection before she knows it.” She holds up an empty plastic cup. “Red or blue?”
I wave my finger between the two bowls. Eeny, meeny, miney, mo. “Let’s go with the blue.”
We make small talk for a few minutes before a trio of girls in bronze-colored sarongs whisks Daphne away, giggling and pulling her down the hall.
I stay by the punchbowl and try to stave off an awkward unease. How do normal people mingle so easily? If this were a movie, it would be the scene where the attractive stranger comes up beside me, says something witty, and helps ease my social discomfort. But this is my humdrum life, not some silver screen fiction, so it’s not gonna go that way. Besides, I’ve grown up with enough reminders that I’m not leading lady material. At this party, I wouldn’t even make the end credits. I’m an extra. I stand at the table and have no lines for the partygoers who stop by for punch and sweets. Booze isn’t putting me at ease so maybe candy will? I sort through the lollipops, take way too long choosing, finally settle on a green one with white spiraling on its curved edges like a miniature galaxy.
It’s going to be a long night.
I take a seat on a sofa next to a couple of guys in Mad Hatter outfits, talking intently. The Last Unicorn is projected on the wall in front of us. Before long, the pair beside me is in the throes of heavy foreplay. They nudge me with careless knees and elbows, cause my punch to slosh in its cup. Here’s hoping the lollipop will undercut my drink’s bitterness. Nope, it’s sour apple-flavored. Not the best choice.
It’s painfully clear the living room won’t offer any potential for social interaction, so I set off down a long hallway to explore the rest of the party. I find Sally in the dining room with Zak and several others, hunched over a giant hookah pipe, exhaling puffs of apricot-tinged smoke.
“You okay?” I ask her.
“The shrooms won’t kick in for another half hour, so I’m killing time before my trip.” She smiles an easy, unfocused smile. “Have you been to the naked room yet?”
“What’s the naked room?”
She gives me a look that says, ‘duh’ and sways her head back and forth like it’s on a spring. “What it sounds like.”
Zak gently puts his hands on Sally’s ears to cease the motion of her head. “Anybody’s welcome, but you have to take off all your clothes as soon as you come in,” he says.
I hope there’s a sign on the door.
Zak offers me the hookah.
“No thanks.” They exchange a glance, puzzlement with traces of sympathy. I bet they think, poor Astrid, why isn’t she having fun? Why is she so awkward?
I reach for the punchbowl in the middle of the glass table, this one filled with a purple liquid. “I thought there were only two kinds.”
“Maybe they mixed the red and blue together? Careful, I have no idea what that one does,” Zak warns.
“Hey, you wanna do shotguns?” Sally offers him the hookah.
“What’s a shotgun?” he asks.
“Do you seriously not know? Okay, I’ll show you.”
Their voices trail off as I leave the room, armed with another drink.
Next stop, the kitchen for some ice. Not that I care about having a colder beverage; I just want something to do. A paralyzing dread prickles at me that I have nothing to say to anyone at this party, not even the people I came with. I’ve fallen into an antisocial rabbit hole and I don’t know how to climb out.
Maybe drinking more will help? You know, because alcohol has been proven to solve so many problems. Whenever I drink, I hope it’ll make me more extroverted, even temporarily. Like when I went with Simon and his academia friends to wine bars, where I always felt underdressed and under-informed. They could’ve been sommeliers-in-training with their encyclopedic knowledge of wine, and would spend hours discussing things like primary aromas and body profiles. Each sip was described in terms of weight and structure, and when they’d ask for my thoughts on a particular bottle, I felt like a six-year-old being given a pop quiz on thermonuclear physics. My simple answers always garnered condescending smiles. So I’d keep quiet and take large sips of whatever was in my glass until things took on a soft blur, and it didn’t matter how out of place I felt.
It would be nice to find that same level of alcohol-induced indifference now, but the more I drink, the more shyness cripples me. The crowd’s sparse, glimmering costumes are all better than my own; even when mine receives a compliment, I have a conversational block that renders me mute and nervously smiling.
I walk up and down the hall, pretend I have a direction.
There’s shrieking and singing coming from behind one of the closed doors. The pounding bass from the music inside drowns my knock, so I hold my breath and turn the knob.
I should have known. The first thing I see is Daphne’s nipples, then the outline of her ribs and the rest of her bare torso, stretched in a curve as her head tilts back in wild laughter. A short, portly man, defying the room’s rules by keeping his ha
t and socks on, waves me inside. I shake my head and close the door.
Things are getting fuzzy, which means the calm that usually accompanies the blur of getting fucked up should soon follow . . . but it doesn’t. Instead, my jaw twitches, and I start seeing things through jagged jump cuts and double images.
Have I been in this room yet? No. The floor in here is covered with golden leaves and long cushions shaped like logs. I choose one near the corner, squirming on the hard foam beneath me, and put my head back against the wall. A ceiling light casts the room in rotating yellow and orange autumnal circles, but watching them spin makes me queasy, so I close my eyes. It even sounds like a forest in here, with sounds of chirping birds and a babbling brook piped through hidden speakers. It’s actually kind of relaxing.
“Have you seen the white rabbit?” a raspy male voice asks me.
So much for relaxing.
“I have no idea how to answer that question.” Maybe if I keep my eyes closed he’ll take a hint.
“There’s a white rabbit here with special treats. I haven’t seen him yet, though.”
Maybe not.
“I think I’ve had enough treats for one night,” I say.
“Are you rolling?”
“I think so.” I part my eyelids slightly and see odd features—buck teeth, flared nostrils, a pointy chin—but not a face as a whole.
“Are you loving it?”
I’m really not. Especially how articulating words takes longer than my brain thinks them up. It’s like driving with the parking brake on. It reminds me of when I first got to the hospital. But I don’t want to be a bad sport by admitting all this. “It’s okay,” I say.
“Do you mind if I kiss you?” A waft of artificial cherry candy hits me as he leans in.
I do mind, and I want to say so, but I’m too tired to resist. Not smart. Sharp teeth press into my lips and a small tongue probes the inside of my mouth, like something that doesn’t belong there, something I want to spit out. I shouldn’t have let him near my face. I turn my head but he still doesn’t get it. He runs clammy hands down my bare arms, tries to touch the skin beneath my waistband. I sit up sharply, hold out a finger.
“Please, don’t.”
“Oh . . . okay then . . . Don’t forget to drink water.” He hands me a plastic bottle and, moments later, crouches beside another girl across the room.
“Have you seen the white rabbit?” I hear him ask.
I want to warn this girl of the party predator, but she shoos him away as I get up.
Where else can I go?
Mixing punches was a bad idea; they’ve filled me with ambivalence and contradiction. My mouth is a desert, my stomach a sloshing, flimsy boat on a stormy sea. I’m sleepy, yet agitated. I don’t want to talk to anyone, but also don’t want to spend the rest of the party alone.
In the doorway are two figures wearing identical black cloaks and rabbit masks.
“Would you like to join me for a tea party upstairs?” asks one.
“Or me for a game of chess downstairs?” asks the other.
They both hold out white-gloved hands, expecting me to choose one.
“I’d like to get past, please,” I say.
“Care for a treat?” They point to candy necklaces around their necks strung with plastic pouches containing colorful baubles I assume are more than sugar.
“No, thank you.”
They step aside to let me through.
“Are you sure?” one of them whispers in my ear. “Maybe it’ll help you remember.”
“Wait, what?” I sharply spin around but the rabbits have gone off in different directions, and I’m not sure which one to follow, so I go after neither.
There’s a tap on my shoulder.
“Hey. I know you!”
Where have I seen this woman? The blue bangs, the shaved head, the facial piercings are familiar, but I can’t remember the context.
“We met on the T. I’m Minerva. You’re Astrid, right?”
“That’s right. Good memory.” Wish I could say the same.
“You look like you’re having a bad trip.” She offers me a red plastic cup.
“You could say that. What’s in this?” I take it and sniff the clear contents.
“Water. If it starts out bad, adding more drugs will only make it worse.”
“You know what they say, don’t throw good drugs after bad.” I gulp down the water.
“You wanna get some air?”
I follow her out to the deck. Thankfully, the brisk weather has deterred most of the underdressed guests, except for a couple entwined in a shadowy corner, their whispers and low laughs easy enough to tune out.
Minerva leads me to a short set of wooden steps, and we sit facing the dark backyard. There’s a rustle in the bushes followed by a sigh. The party noises gradually fade into the background.
I sip more water. “Ugh, this creepy guy just tried to make out with me and I can’t get the cough syrup taste of him out of my mouth.”
“Well don’t worry, I’m not gonna try to make out with you. I like girls, but you’re not my type.” She takes a pack of clove cigarettes out of her pocket. “I’d never take advantage of someone in your condition, anyway.”
“I thought E was literally a happy pill. Everyone here but me seems so . . . orgiastic.” I’m getting my verbal bearings, but my tongue is still fat and lazy in my mouth.
“E can be a happy pill. But you can only bury your feelings with drugs for so long.”
“Or, in my case, not at all.”
“Eh, most of the people in there are miserable, and it’ll catch up with them. We’re better off having a head start on dealing with the suckage.” Her face briefly glows, all angles and shadows, as she bends her head to light a clove.
I drink more water and inhale the bracing air, now interwoven with spicy smoke. “I was all set to have a good time tonight. I don’t know why I couldn’t. Sorry I’m being so whiny.”
“Some philosopher said you’re only happy when you’re anticipating future happiness. Maybe now that you’re here, you don’t have the next thing to anticipate. I mean, the real thing rarely pans out, anyway.”
“Don’t they say you should live in the moment, though?” It’s nice to form words more easily but my jaw aches like crazy. I wish I’d brought gum like Daphne suggested.
Minerva leans back on her elbows and stretches her legs out. “That’s what they say, right? Live in the now. But it’s hardly ever as good as looking forward to something, when it’s perfect because it hasn’t happened yet. Or looking back on it, when our memories can give it a rosy glow and smooth out any sharp edges. Life as it’s happening is no glow and all edges. The moment is overrated. You just gotta realize the moment sucks more often than not. Accept what you get and don’t hope for a lot. Build up a thick skin so you don’t feel those sharp edges as much.”
“Wow, you’d make a great demotivational speaker. Minerva the Miserable. Become a Cynic in 30 Days.”
“It’s not cynicism, it’s realism.”
I snort. “That’s what all jaded people say. Hope takes work. I’ve definitely hit a few sharp edges recently, but I like to think there’s still potential for the . . . unexpectedly awesome.” A jolt, lightning down my spine, a burst of static in my ears. Come on, tune into it, find the right frequency. I jerk my head to clear the noise.
Minerva tilts her head back to blow out a plume of smoke, and I’m mesmerized by the spiral patterns of it against the night sky. “Hope in careful doses, kiddo,” she says.
This buzz in my head is distracting, like a single lost bee doing laps inside my cranium. The smoke, too, which my drug-addled mind creates filigree out of each time Minerva exhales.
If I chase it too hard it won’t come to me. I change the subject. “So are you new to Boston? On the T, you mentioned being from the west coast.”
“Yeah, I moved from Seattle a few months ago.”
“How are you liking it so far?”
“Too crowded with college kids, but it’s okay. I’ve got some friends here, so it doesn’t totally feel like starting from scratch. Not that I get to see them much because the shop keeps me so busy.”
“Curio something, right?” I try to recall the store’s name from her business card.
“Curio City. Sells all kinds of death-related stuff. So far, it seems like there’s a market for the bizarre here. But I really need to get someone in to help me run things. I’ve been so swamped, I haven’t even had a chance to interview anyone yet.” She puts out her cigarette on the porch railing, throws it into the darkness.
“You should interview me.” Could this be the job around the corner Oliver hinted at? “I have retail experience and I’ve been looking for work. It’s perfect.”
I laugh, then lean over and vomit between my feet. Minerva holds my hair back while I heave a few more times.
“Wow, that was totally unprofessional.” I should be embarrassed, but it felt really satisfying to get something not belonging in my body out. I wonder if this is how a cat feels after coughing up a big hairball. “I hope you won’t hold that against me as a potential employee. I’m organized and a hard worker.”
“That was . . . oddly amusing. I bet you feel at least marginally better.”
“I do. Good enough to find a mushroom or log to nap on until my friends decide they’ve debauched themselves enough for the night.”
“It might be a while if they’re into it. But I can give you a ride home now if you want. I haven’t touched the punch or anything else that’s been passed around here, so I’m fine to drive. You could even crash at my place. This stuff won’t be out of your system for a while, so you might not want to be alone. And we can talk job stuff in the morning.”
A sleepover with my possible new boss? Why the hell not. “That would be great, if you don’t mind.”
“I wouldn’t have offered if I did. Let’s get you some more water on our way out.” Minerva helps me to my feet. As we head back into the house, I look over my shoulder into the dark yard. A white blur catches my eye. Just as I make out the shape of a rabbit, it hops away and sneaks under a neighboring bush. Okay then.
Asleep From Day Page 12
