Basketcase
I wasn’t intending to come to any party. The cheap cologne, spiked punch, and cakey faces scream Beverly Hills, and I’m not meant for it. Simple as that.
A broken spotlight swaying over every senior in this joint finally gives out - then back on again, as it will for the rest of the night. Spray tanned bodies and sparkly dresses are the only illuminated clues as to what kind of place I’ve found myself in. Against the wall are the beatniks, wastoids, dweebies, and dorks; I suppose one could admire the intellectual ones best, at least they pretend to be worth something. Even so, the smell radiating from the dusty corner beckons better than anyone in this room.
I am alone for this “party.” No eyes glance in my direction. No mouths twist into the syllables needed to mutter my name. No one, not one, steps at me for a dance. Well, until he does. It’s one of those geeks, scrawny and stale, nervous with a brace face and zit on his cheek. At least it’s not one of the sportos fulfilling a dare, or worse, making me think one of them like me. Over the croon of sounds they call music, he squeaks,
“M-May I have this dance?”
Pity is such a strange feeling. As we pull onto the crowded dance floor, I can see the river of time etched in stone for this boy. It’ll be picture perfect, that much is true. Just from how he shines his mental mouth and slips his fingers between mine, I know he’s got it made; he’s a silicon valley type, simultaneously pathetic and impressive. What’s also clear is he’s got no name. No desires. No dreams, real dreams, at all. He came from no cause, he’ll make no effect, and his existence is just okay with him in itself. I am alone for this party, but not for this dance.
We spin, we sing, we dip, and skip in place. He seems to mistake the soft look in my eyes for affection. It’s the furthest thing. Who am I to let this boy trap himself in his doomed future? I’m better than everyone else in this room, aren’t I? Why let him fall into the life he thinks he wants? I’m better than these people. I know what he needs. The wood and steel weighing down my pocket slips out in mere seconds, the plastic cover pulled off in less, and generously, I fit the blade between two of the white rungs in his chest. The music muffles as I watch his eyes grow wide, then lose their light entirely.
Whatever kinship I feel for the outcasts becomes all too real once he drops to the floor. I watch in awe as the people around us keep dancing. Keep singing. Keep frolicking toward the photobooths. Keep downing the spiked punch. Keep spritzing putrid cologne. Keep reapplying their makeup. The guy that felt brave enough to ask for a dance lies lifeless on the floor while everyone else, including me, enjoys the rest of their night.
Shivers roll down my spine once the music comes back into focus; it’s like it never happened at all. Cold air scratches at my cheeks and nose once I push open the back door and step outside. It was so hot in there, so stuffy with soulless shills, sweat is dripping down my temple. A cigarette finds itself between my index and middle, steady and reliable, easy to focus on rather than the flashing red and blue lights in the distance. Simple as that.