Rebirth

My first days living in Missy’s condo were surreal. I had more space in my single bedroom and bathroom than in my entire studio apartment, and quite possibly the entire floor of my building. My white cat and I wandered in circles in the large space, not entirely sure what to do with ourselves. The cat nearly blended in with the eggshell-colored carpet, which proved somewhat dangerous, as I came close to stepping on her more than once. All of my belongings were transported across town in a single trip in Missy’s small, two-door car, mattress strapped to the roof. I was half tempted to move my mattress into the walk-in closet and live in there, creating a perfectly reasonably sized living room out of the bedroom space. There was an endless supply of natural light, from large windows and skylights. I needed no artificial lighting for the daylight hours, which was such a contrast from my old apartment I barely ever used the lamps I brought with me. I felt like I was living in an entirely new universe, not just a new residence.

I’d gotten home from work a few hours earlier, and Missy invited me to join her at a party later in the evening. I declined, because I just didn’t see that I was going to fit in with the kind of friends that she would have. Besides, we both had to go to work in the morning. But, being Missy, she said that she wasn’t taking no for an answer, and we were leaving at 10pm. It was now 9:45 and I was staring into my closet, cat purring like a motor at my feet, trying to figure out what someone would wear to a college party. I was guessing that sexy, yet casual was on the menu. I gazed into my closet and saw that I honestly had nothing to wear. There were three pairs of khakis for work. I had one pair of ripped jeans and a pair of yoga pants I’d received for Christmas three years earlier. None of this was acceptable bottom-half clothing. For tops, I had my big, burly cardigan, an old, oversized sweatshirt jacket, six bookstore polos and a variety of logo tees from other people’s vacations. The “Cancun” shirt in 70s colors was a personal favorite, and had been worn so often that the colors had faded to pastel versions of themselves. I sighed and sat down on the floor, cross-legged. I tried to stick my index finger up into my cast to scratch an itch, but couldn’t quite reach. After reaching for a wire coat hanger to do the job, I stopped myself and tossed it to the other end of the closet. The last thing I needed was to scratch myself bloody underneath the cast.

There was a knock at the door. “Come in!” I shouted. She bounded into the room.

“Where are you?” she asked. “Are you ready?”

“Not exactly,” I replied, and she followed my voice into the closet. “I don’t think I should be going.”

“Why would you say that?” she asked, sounding hurt. “Can I pick something out for you?” I nodded. She surveyed the scene, held up an index finger as if to say, “wait” and bounced out the door. She returned with a tank top that was cut down to there, and a pair of low-rider jeans. “Will you try these on?”

I tried to protest and tell her that I didn’t want to borrow her Armani-quality clothes. I tried to tell her that I couldn’t afford the dry cleaning involved with returning the clothing to its owner. I tried to tell her that I shouldn’t go. She listened to none of my arguments, and proceeded to my bed where she sat, scowling at me, arms crossed. I closed the closet door and got changed. The jeans were about three inches too long, but the tank top looked good. I stepped out of the closet and she applauded. “Yay! Are you ready?” I told her that I needed to run a brush through my hair and find a pair of shoes. Before I knew it, she had dragged out an arsenal of tools and products. I was impeccably coiffed and wearing a pair of strappy heels that were a size too large, but manageable.

I had run out of excuses, other than the social awkwardness that I always managed to carry with me. It was time to go. She tossed me a jacket. “We don’t want you getting cold, do we?” she asked. It was tight over my cast as I pulled it on, but I loved how it felt warm and wooly, and stuffed my hands into its deep pockets. Riding downstairs in the elevator, she smiled at me. “You look good?” she said.

I didn’t say anything, but I felt pretty for the first time in ages.

The taxi dropped us off at the door of a large old house just off campus. I could hear the bass line of the music from out on the street, and wondered if the neighbors were going to call the police. It took me a few minutes to realize that all of the houses were filled with students, and no one really cared about the music, the crowds or the beer cans on the front lawn.

Missy grabbed my hand and led me through the crowds of gyrating dancers to reach the kitchen. This was the source of all the world’s beer, it seemed, judging by the two kegs and countless coolers filled with cans on ice. It was also where we found several of her friends, who all spoke like she did. Welcome to the cult of up-talkers.

“Oh my god, Missy? You look fabulous?” said one blonde who was, in my estimation, wearing far too much makeup.

“Thanks! Guys? I’d like you to meet my friend, Angela?” She pointed to me in the same way that Vanna White points to letters on Wheel of Fortune. She then pointed at each of her friends and rattled off names.

“Angela, this is Mindy?” a tall brunette who looked bored with the whole evening; “And Kelsey?” the blonde with too much makeup; “Debbie?” a shorter brunette wearing a sparkly shirt; “And last but certainly not least, Kristie?” Kristie looked the most like Missy, blonde and perky in an undeniably bouncy kind of way. They were probably both captains of their respective high school cheerleading squads. Their names all ended in “y” or “ie”. I could see that I was going to be known as Angie by the end of the night if we spent much time together.

They talked amongst themselves, randomly reaching out to fix each other's hair, like a group of social monkeys on a National Geographic special. Missy offered me a beer. I declined. “Oh come on? Please? For me?”

I shook my head. She looked offended. I leaned close to her ear and whispered two words, “Recovering alcoholic.” She pulled back, surprised, but didn’t press the issue any further. She immediately went to the fridge, found a can of Coke, and poured it into a red plastic tumbler.

“Here,” she said, handing it to me. “No one will know, ok?” She smiled. I couldn’t help but like her at moments like these, when she felt like she was conspiring with you to keep some huge secret.

It wasn’t exactly true that I was a recovering alcoholic. I’ve never gone through a 12-step program or anything like that. But I did come to realize that alcohol was causing a lot of problems for me, and I had stopped drinking about a year before, with the exception of one night a few months ago when I went to a bar and ended up coming home with a guy whose name I didn't know; we knew how well that situation worked out for me. I was especially cautious not to start again in an unknown setting. I just wasn’t comfortable with what might happen as a result. The way things had gone over the last few months, I couldn’t take the chance of ending up in bed with some stranger.

Missy and the girls snaked their way through the crowd, looking for men. I followed behind, surveying the scene. Guys approached them from every angle, offering hugs and kisses; even more checked them out from a distance. They were quite an attractive bunch. I stood a few feet away for a while, shifting my weight from one foot to the other, uncomfortable in the heels. I flagged Missy’s attention and pointed to a couch in the corner to indicate that I was going to be over there if she wanted me. She nodded and waved and gave me a thumbs-up sign. I flashed the same sign back.

I curled myself up on the couch with my legs tucked under me. I still had the jacket on over my slinky top, and had no real intention of taking it off and drawing attention to myself. I watched people come and go, embracing, dancing, talking and kissing. I liked my perch on the edge of the world. I could feel the energy of the scene, but without the anxiety that came with actually having to participate in it. I was never much of a fan of crowds, but I did ok one-on-one.

I didn’t see the tall, blonde guy approach, but suddenly he was sitting on the other end of the couch, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, beer bottle in his right hand. I wondered where he had found a bottle of beer in a party that was clearly cans and kegs. He must have known the residents of the house and gotten access to their private stash. He caught me looking in his direction and raised his beer in my direction. I mouthed the word, “cheers” and tipped my cup towards him. We both took a drink. I resumed my survey of the dance floor, particularly intrigued by a seemingly mismatched couple, brought together by nothing but proximity, music and alcohol.

Blonde guy was saying something to me, but I signaled that I couldn’t hear over the thumping hip-hop bass. He scooted closer. “Are you a friend of Denise?”

I shook my head no. “I don’t know anyone here, really,” I said. “I came with a friend.”

“Oh,” he said, looking dejected. “Where is he?”

“It’s not a he,” I told him. “I’m here with my roommate.”

His eyes brightened. “Female roommate?”

“Yes,” I said. “You’d probably like her.”

“Oh yeah? Why do you say that?”

I smiled. “She’s blonde, like you. You could look like Barbie and Ken together.”

He laughed. “I’ll keep her in mind for next Halloween.”

I scanned the crowd. “She’s around here somewhere. You can start planning your costume now.”

He shook his head. “No, thanks. Right now I’d rather talk to you.”

I was a little surprised, as I always tended to be when guys showed an interest. You would think that someone who had as many sexual encounters as I had would have been more of a pro at this sort of thing, but the fact of the matter was that I was still as socially awkward with guys as I had been when I was 15. This was especially true when I didn’t have alcohol to lower my inhibitions.

“So. Uh… are you a student?” I had such great conversational skills.

“Yeah, a senior. Pre-med.”

“Wow,” I said, impressed. “What kind of medicine do you want to specialize in?”

He started to laugh. “Well, much to the dismay of my parents, I don’t actually want to be a doctor to heal the living I’m hoping to be a forensic pathologist.”

I thought for a moment. “The docs who study corpses for the police department?”

“Yeah. It’s the same basic training – you still need to learn how all the body systems work in a living organism, so you can tell what went wrong when you see them dead.”

“So the gunshot wound isn’t obvious enough, huh?”

He laughed again. “It’s not always that straightforward.”

“I guess not,” I said. “It never is on TV, anyway.”

Missy saw us and bounded over to the couch in big, bouncy steps. “Oh my god? I can’t believe that out of all the people in this party, you are talking to my ex?”

I looked at the blonde guy, who had shrunk about two sizes and was nervously chugging his beer. “So,” he said, “Missy is your roommate? What a coincidence.”

I grinned sheepishly, feeling terrible about having brought them together. “Yeah, I just moved in this week.”

“That’s great,” he said. “Great place.”

Missy grabbed my hand and pulled me from the couch. “Goodbye, Brian.” I waved.

“Wait,” he said, grabbing my other wrist. “What’s your name?”

“Angela.”

“Beautiful name, Angela. I’ll see you around.”

Missy tugged at my hand. “He’s nothing but trouble,” she said with conviction.

“He’s cute, though.”

“Yeah, he’s definitely cute?” There was a hint of a smile for a moment. “But bad, very bad?”

We went back to the kitchen, where it was slightly quieter. “Did you meet anyone interesting tonight?” I asked.

“Maybe? I’m not sure? I’m waiting to see if he comes to find me?”

“He will,” I said. “He’d be a fool not to.”

“There are plenty of fools around here.” She got another beer and poured me a new Coke. “How old are you?” she asked,

“24.”

“Wow, you seem older?”

“Thanks. Make me feel ancient in the middle of your college party.”

“No! I didn’t mean it like that?” You look like a student? But you act so much older? Like you have the weight of the world on your shoulders?”

“Sometimes I feel that way,” I said.

“Why?”

“I had to grow up too fast. My mother died when I was young. I had to learn to take care of myself at an early age. I didn’t learn quickly or well.”

She looked saddened by this news. “I’m really sorry?” she said.

“It doesn’t matter now,” I said. “This is a party. Let’s talk about something better.”

“You’re right? It’s a party?” she said. She turned away from the fridge and found herself face-to-face with the guy. Her guy. The guy she had hoped would come find her. He was about six feet tall with dark hair and a lingering hint of a summer tan. He looked stunning in jeans and a white shirt. She tried to stay calm and seem aloof, but her bouncing foot gave away her excitement to me. He stood very close to her and whispered into her ear. She grinned. His mouth drifted from her ear to her neck, and I saw a chill run through her as he kissed the spot just below her ear. Her arms raised and rested lightly on his hips, as though guided by an unseen force. I knew that I should look away, but their movements were so slow, so choreographed, that it was like watching poetry. It felt like a dream.

They were dancing now, slowly, intertwined in their embrace. The party ceased to exist. They heard their own music, and swayed rhythmically to it.

I backed away until I reached the doorway. I left them alone in the kitchen, and I turned and walked away. I stepped outside into the crisp autumn night, and walked four blocks to the nearest bus stop, where I caught the next bus home to the condo.