by Sean McGinty
She sat down on the curb and pulled a cigarette and lighter from her apron pocket.
“Still smoking, eh?” I said.
She took a drag and looked up at me. “I’m just nervous. I think it’s my dad. I forgot how much I hate performing in front of him. He’s way too enthusiastic. Hey. If you see him, could you like sit next to him and, you know, make sure he doesn’t clap at the wrong parts?”
“Sure. OK.”
But by the time I got to the seats, they were already flashing the lights and telling everyone to dim and silence all electronic devices. I don’t know how many people that theater holds—not a lot, and it wasn’t even half-full. It made sense, I guess. I mean what piece of theater, even a Harold Pinter masterwork, can compete with a couple hundred motorcycles?
Right before they turned the lights out, I spotted Mr. E.
I started down an aisle, but it was the wrong one and I ended up below him, about 10 feet away. It would have to do.
The curtains slid open on a darkened stage. A spotlight illuminated a table and two chairs. Behind this, a bare white wall with a single door. The door opened and a man walked onstage. He sat down at the chair and unfolded his newspaper and began to read. After a moment, a woman’s voice called from offstage:
“Is that you Petey?” Pause. “Petey is that you? Petey?”
“What?” said the man.
“Is that you?”
“Yes, it’s me.”
The door opened and Katie appeared. From somewhere in the darkness behind me came a sudden burst of clapping.
YAY! for The Birthday Party by Harold Pinter, whose Broadway revival production is available on FT formats. As a play it was dark and perplexing, but Katie was the shit in it. There’s nothing better than watching a person doing what they do best. There really isn’t. The effortlessness of it. The grace. The drama. The sexiest old lady I’d ever seen. By the time it was over I’d grown old and died with her six dozen times.
Afterwards, I found Mr. E. in the lobby by the drinking fountains, surveying the crowd, such as it was, with a big grin on his face.
“A triumph, no?”
“Oh, definitely.”
“We must celebrate.”
“Yeah, of course.”
He stood there for a moment savoring it all, then leaned in with his voice low.
“But tell me—here is what I did not understand. Why was everyone so cruel to one another? And why did they speak so slowly?”
Mr. E. insisted on taking us out to a birthday dinner for Katie, and that’s how we ended up at Lucky Pedro’s Bar & Grill again—the same place I’d met her all those months ago. The place was packed with bikers, and we had to wait at the bar for a table, and then a waitress came to tell us our table was ready. In order to get to the dining room you had to pass through a short hallway and a pair of hinged, saloon-style doors. So that was what we did, and that’s when I saw what was waiting for me—for us—on the other side.
In the far corner there was a table.
And seated at the table there were five people.
And those five people were Evie, Dad, Sam, Isaac, and Shiloh.
Oh, God, no.
But it was true.
There they were, deep in conversation, and at first they didn’t seem to notice us, and no one seemed to notice them, either, and I squinched up my eyes and started to pray that we might all continue on in our lives without the knowledge of each other’s presence—and I was almost to the “amen” when I heard someone call out my name.
It was Sam, waving us over. “Howdy, strangers!”
The next thing I knew we were standing there with them, introductions were being made, and everyone was talking at once—Katie, Evie, Dad, Mr. E., Isaac—all except Shiloh, who wouldn’t look up at me. I checked her status, and as I was doing so it flashed from PARTY DOWN to UNAVAILABLE.
Now, for some reason Dad and Isaac were getting out of their chairs, and for a brief, wonderful moment I thought they were getting up because they were leaving, but then I saw that they were just getting up to move the next table over to theirs.
Then incredibly we were seated, all eight of us wrapped around two tables: Evie, Isaac, Sam, Dad, Mr. E., Shiloh, Katie, and me. For a moment I felt nothing, just sat in a daze, slowly remembering myself, and I note here as a matter of medical interest that I experienced the return of sensation as a physical thing first—in the form of perspiration, then cotton mouth, detumescence, and finally my butthole shrinking down to the size of a poppy seed.
After that, everything got really vivid. Shiloh’s silver necklace, the touch of Meg eyeliner Katie had missed, the reflection of candlelight in Isaac’s glasses, it was all there in glorious 3D, with the contrast way up and the brightness, too—my napkin white as a road flare—everything and everyone glowing around me with a radiant finality like it was appearing for the very last time. And yet nothing happened. I mean, nothing out of the ordinary. No one stood to denounce me, or lunged at me with a knife, or burst into tears. Instead, the waitress came and took our orders, and after that I excused myself to the bathroom.
It was a dinky little room with a small, screenless window that could be reached only by standing on the toilet. The latch had been painted over—but not enough that I couldn’t get it undone. I pried the window open and found myself looking onto a dark alley. An unattended motorcycle, a white Harley-Davidson Road Queen® Special Edition (YAY!) was parked near a blue Dumpster. Painted across the saddle in blue script was a single word: Escape.
From somewhere down the alley came the sound of laughter. High, musical: a woman’s laughter. I never saw her, but I knew she was the owner. You could just tell—a laugh like that just had to have a white Harley to match. I dreamed of our escape. How she’d come laughing to her steed, and how I’d squeeze out the window and hop on behind and wrap my arms around her big leather jacket. And how she’d gun the engine and we’d ride off into the sunset to begin a new life together somewhere out west. Way out west. Somewhere like Japan.
Back in my seat, and everyone was talking, the conversation raging around me like a river. It was insane. There were so many horrifying things. Mr. E. was talking up Katie’s birthday with my dad, and Evie and Katie were laughing like old friends about some biker they’d seen, and Sam was gabbing with Isaac about the Battle of the Bands, and everyone was just chattering away—everyone except for Shiloh, who was sitting there with a vague smile on her face, like she was remembering some old joke.
So I messaged her:
original boy_2: how’s it going?
And she messaged me back, just one word:
shiloh_lilly: guess
“Second place,” Sam was saying. “Did you hear that, Aaron? The JC Wonder Excursion got second place!”
“We should’ve got first,” said Dad, “but the power went out.”
original boy_2: did you go to the biker jamboree?
“You guys should play at the Cowboy Poetry Festival,” said Sam.
“Cowboy Poetry Festival?” said Isaac. “That sounds interesting.”
shiloh_lilly: does this count?
“Yeah, not really,” Evie explained. “Most of them aren’t real cowboys. They’re all originally from New Jersey or Wisconsin or New York—no offense. And they talk about, you know, ropin’ and ridin’ and the range and critters.”
“And the hardscrabble people,” said Dad.
original boy_2: are u ok?
“Right,” said Evie. “The hardscrabble people. Who work hard all day and then look out on the land and feel the world deeply.”
“Now, hold on, honey,” said Sam. “I’ve looked out on the land and felt the world deeply—well, I have.”
shiloh_lilly: yay! for birthdayexpress® party supplies?
original boy_2: yay!
shiloh_lilly: guess what?
original boy_2: what?
“Question,” said Isaac. “What’s a critter?”
“Skunks,” said Dad. “Porcupines, racco
ons. Unwanted varmints people shoot.”
“So is a rabbit a critter?” Isaac asked.
“But why would you shoot a rabbit?” said Sam.
“I’m not saying I would,” said Dad. “People do, though.”
shiloh_lilly: u r an asshole
“The Nevadans shoot rabbits,” said Evie. “The ‘cowboys’ from Wisconsin write poems about them. So it all kind of evens out.”
original boy_2: i should have said something
original boy_2: i’m really sorry
original boy_2: i didn’t mean to hurt anyone
shiloh_lilly: lol right
“I wouldn’t shoot a critter,” said Sam. “What on earth did a rabbit ever do to anyone?”
“They’ll eat your garden down to the nub—I’ve seen it.”
shiloh_lilly: i hope you’re having fun
“In Spain there are no more rabbits,” said Mr. E. “They have all died. Once, they were everywhere. Now?” He slashed his hand through the air. “Gone.”
“But look here, Sam,” said Dad. “What about some mouse that’s getting into your kitchen and pissing in your butter dish? Would you shoot one of those?”
original boy_2: i’m sorry
“Mice DO that?” said Sam. “Now, hold on. Why would a mouse pee in a butter dish?”
shiloh_lilly: u already said that
“Look,” said Dad. “Butter dish is just one of an endless number of options. You have to realize that once you’re asleep, a mouse—or mice, which is more likely the case—has six to eight hours of free rein in your house. Think about THAT.”
“We keep our butter in the fridge,” said Sam.
original boy_2: it’s all just kind of complicated
“Oh, goody,” said Evie. “Here comes the food.”
shiloh_lilly: don’t message me anymore
“Huevos rancheros?” said the waiter.
original boy_2: shiloh, i’m sorry
“That was me,” said Isaac.
“And the beef tacos?”
shiloh_lilly: don’t message me anymore
“Over here,” said Dad.
original boy_2: ok but can we at least talk?
Homie™ popped up between us.
> ouchers!
user shiloh_lilly has blocked u original boy_2!
:(
send white flag?
What was the point? She didn’t want to talk. It made sense to me. After dinner the waiters and waitresses brought out the big sombrero birthday hat and stuck it on Katie’s head, and we all sang the birthday song. We sang it in Spanish and then in English, and no one sang it louder than Shiloh, or at least that’s how it felt, and all the while smiling at me with that look on her face.
Katie closed her eyes, made a wish, and blew out the candle. Everyone clapped and cheered.
Later that night I ended up in Katie’s hotel room, the one adjoining her dad’s room, just the two of us sitting on her bed. (YAY! for the Best Choice Inn®, with business-friendly suites far superior to anything I ever experienced at the King Cowboy.) It was time to give Katie her present. I took the little box out of my pocket.
“Got you something else. Happy birthday.”
“Aw, you shouldn’t have.” She looked at the box in my hands. “I wonder what it could be…a Crock-Pot?…A pony…?”
But before I gave it to her, I had to say something.
“Hey, Katie,” I said quietly.
“Or perhaps a single delicious cigarette, just waiting to be—”
“Katie, I need to know something.”
“Yeah?”
“Is this a thing?”
“A thing?”
“You and me…is this a thing or not?”
“Oh, Aaron,” she said. “Do we have to—”
“Well, yeah. Because your dad, for one…he seemed to think we were a thing…and I thought that if he thought we were a thing then maybe it was because you told him we were, and if you told him, then—”
“Look.” She shifted uncomfortably. “I probably shouldn’t have let him get so excited about you and me, but you are my friend, and it just made it easier if you were twenty-one and—everything else he just assumed. That’s just how he is. He goes bananas about everything.”
“So we’re not a thing. This isn’t serious.”
Katie sighed. “Can we please just not get into this conversation again? How about we just have fun? I was having such a nice time before you started in on all the questions….So what’s in the box? Don’t keep me guessing.”
And the way she talked, like I was just annoying her with my feelings, I guess it kind of pissed me off.
“Well, about us being a thing or not—there’s another reason I wanted to know.”
And Katie was like, “Yeah?”
And I was like, “Because when you were out of town, I started hanging out with this girl.”
Katie blinked. “Oh?”
And it’s funny how a person’s expression can change so fast.
“Well, that’s probably good, then.” Her voice was real casual—but not really casual. There was like this wobble to it. “Who is it? A friend from high school?” She picked a plastic cup off the table and started unwrapping it.
“No, someone else.”
“Oh.”
“It was Shiloh.”
“From dinner tonight?” She was standing now. “That Shiloh?!”
“Yeah, pretty much.”
“So the whole time at dinner…that’s why she kept looking at you that way…Oh my God, Aaron!”
“Are you upset? I’m sorry. It didn’t mean anything.”
Katie spun around. “What didn’t mean anything? What did you two do?”
“Um…”
“You know what? Don’t tell me. I don’t care.” She wiped her hands over her face. “Great. This is wonderful. She’s more your age anyway. I’m—I’m happy for you.” She was glaring at me, eyes big and shining.
“Well, but I don’t like her. I like you.”
“Ha. Right. Like that speech you gave me before I left for Tahoe. About looking into my heart and everything.”
“I was telling you the truth. And I’m telling you it now. It didn’t mean anything between me and Shiloh.”
“Oh my God, that’s not even the point!”
OK, so what was the point? It was strange, because she was still just glaring at me, but there were these tears running down her face. Like angry tears. She wiped them away.
“Can you just go, please?”
“But Katie—”
When I was a kid I was told that lying is a sin, but I never paid much attention to it, because as far as the Catholics are concerned, pretty much everything is a sin. But now I understood it from a different angle. The real danger of lying is that once you fall into the habit of telling lies—even if they’re just little ones, even lies of omission—what happens is you get out of practice at telling the truth. And there will come a day when you want—or more like need—to say something true, and you won’t be able to pull it off, you’ll be so out of practice.
I told her again I was sorry—and while it was true, it wasn’t the kind of truth I needed. I needed to tell her about how I felt, how I really felt—about her and about everything. How I was rotten inside, how I had a hole in there, and how even though I had fun with Shiloh, it wasn’t the same kind of fun I’d had with her. And how “fun” wasn’t even the word for it. But I couldn’t get there, I couldn’t find the words, I couldn’t get to the point.
“Katie—”
She wouldn’t look at me anymore. She was looking everywhere else but at me. “Leave. Just go, OK? Please.”
Someone was knocking on the adjoining door, and a voice was saying, “Katie? Hello, are you OK?”
And the whole thing was broken, and it was time for me to go.
Later, back at my grandpa’s, I realized I was still holding the little box. Katie’s birthday present. I’d never given it to her.
I to
ok off the top and took out the ring and tossed it in the brush. I’d really screwed up this time. Just a classic fail. Like a monkey hanging from a tree branch. He sees an apple and grabs for it. Then—ooh, look!—he sees another apple and grabs for it, too. And then because he isn’t holding on to the branch anymore, he comes crashing down on his ass, and the apples find out about each other over a birthday dinner and tell him to get lost. It’s the oldest story in the book.
Then came the part that sucked. And suck it did. Suck it did, hard. Harder than a watermelon lollipop, harder than a mentholated throat lozenge, harder than a Dyson WindClonic™ vacuum on HIGH (YAY!).
To begin with, Shiloh and Katie wouldn’t return my messages or answer my calls. I drove into town, but when I got to my sister and Sam’s place, I learned that Shiloh had returned to Reno. She’d started summer classes at UNR. As for Katie, first I tried the hotel she’d been staying at, but someone else was in her room. This old couple from Wyoming. I drove to her apartment. There was a sign tacked to the door: WARNING NOT APPROVED FOR OCCUPANCY. I peeked in her window. Empty.
I messaged her again.
original boy_2: where are u i got your stuff
Later that day she messaged me back. Five words.
katie_e: in tahoe talk later ok?
I needed a distraction from the way I was starting to feel, so I tried digging for a while, but it was a bust. Below the layer of silverware I found a layer of cans of food—old ones with the labels peeling off. Corned beef hash. Pinto beans. Tropical fruit salad. That kind of thing. I stacked them in a pyramid by the tree and tripped over them and tweaked my bad ankle again—and after that I gave up on digging and holed up indoors instead.
I became a pirate.
Just because you’re in FAIL doesn’t mean there aren’t other ways to get what you want. Over the course of the next week I must’ve pirated a hundred different games and interfaces. I got my hands on a copy of A Boy & His Robot, the original version—but it was immediately annoying. I’m talking even Level 1: Escape from Paperless World. When I was 10 it was no big thing to memorize a 20-screen buzzsaw pattern. But now? It just seemed pointless.
