Another Cocktail Party

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic
A woman throws a cocktail party, and her husband is loathing the experience.

Submitted: July 29, 2014

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Submitted: July 29, 2014

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Another Cocktail Party

If I have to hear another person talk about this article they read in The New Yorker, I’m gonna blow my fucking brains out. 

I don’t need to hear about another story on the horrors of Darfur.  Or the funniest cartoon commenting on the differences between men and women or gay marriage or whatever that will most likely go over these people’s heads anyway.  Or some review of a Broadway play everyone must see that will close in a few weeks anyway.  Or, the worst of them all, some profile that’s just a rapturous tribute of hyperbolic vernacular of praises that imagine their subjects as unassailable super-geniuses and preeminent engineers of contemporary culture.  The writer can’t just argue that a writer/actor/director/poet/architect/whatever is talented and does good work.  No, he or she just has to passionately contend that their subject has created masterpieces of such awe-inspiring brilliance that they make anyone that has come before them in their artistic field look like nothing more than a flaming bag of horseshit laid on the front doorstep of American literature by a gaggle of illiterate, toothless, inbred hillbillies by comparison.

I don’t need to hear that shit.  My wife gets The New Yorker.  I can fucking read it!  But, these people don’t get that.  They just droll on and on about nothing. 

“I just loved ‘Milk.’  It’s a shame that gay man had to die.  What was his name again?” 

“We just came back from the Guggenheim.  They had a spectacular exhibit on…damn, what was the artist’s name again?”

“Misty is accelerating in her language classes.  She’s already on Mandarin.  Or, is it Cantonese?  Well, it some Chinese talk.” 

“Did you read the latest New Yorker?”

I will kill someone.  I just know it.  God!  My wife, Janice, had to throw another fucking cocktail party!  I don’t know why.  Apparently, she enjoys having strangers in the house, eating all her food, and drinking all her booze.  And, like I said, they’re such great company.  God!  It’s not even a cocktail party even more!  This always happens.  She invites a few people, and within a few minutes, everyone in the Hamptons is here!  People all over my house, spilling food and drinks on my carpet, farting into my sofa, vomiting into my toilet or my plants!

I move through the party like a burglar in dark house that I’m robbing.  Silent, discreet, and trying not to alert anyone to my presence.  But, it’s fucking difficult for me.  I don’t look like everyone else.  I have on a black suit.  I have nice jet black hair that doesn’t need any hair gels or sprays to stay in place—just water and I’m good to go.  I have light stubble, and I’m not very tan. 

Everyone else is orange.  All the men, clean shaven and wearing white.  All the women, blonde, with a few brunettes and red heads sprinkled in, and in brightly colored dresses.  They’re like neon signs.  Las Vegas is in my living room and spreading all throughout the house.  These fake sycophants clash with the 1930’s art deco designs my wife has made my house into.  It’s 2009, and I’m living in the Ritz. 

I sneak like a cat around the tools and airheads.  We have each of every kind in my house in the Hamptons.  The old hipsters trying desperately to be cool.  The trendsetters who make something cool and drop it once middle America picks it up.  The Barbie dolls, women who’ve been under the knife so much that they’re mostly plastic by now.  The New York and New Jersey cool-as-hell metropolitan males who still follow that stupid metrosexual trend.  The people who know celebrities.  Whether or not they actually do varies.  And, Diddy.  Mr. Combs spots me, waves his hand, and nods his head up.  I return the gesture.  Unfortunately for me, Diddy distracts me for a minute.  In a flash, an alligator pounces on this zebra just going for a drink of water. 

“Tom!?  Tom Michaels!”

Shit!  It’s Frank Puzo.  Some Italian New Jersey tool.  His black hair is spiked up like a porcupine.  His skin covered in spray-on tan.  He reeks of Calvin Kline cologne.  His pink, green, and white plaid shirt, white Khakis, and wicker loafers make me want to throw him down the stairs.  The only reason I know this sack of shit and fads is because…well…honestly, I don’t why or how I know him. 

“Yo, Tom!  Whaz up!?” he says in a half slur while trying to stand up straight and not spill his Scotch.

“Nothing.” 

“That’s fantastic.  You know, I was reading The New Yorker.” 

SON OF A BITCH!!!!

“Normally, I don’t read that type of magazine.  But, I’m datin’ this chick—and she’s like an intellectual and shit.  And, I gots to know this shit to get into her panties.  Anyway, I was reading the profile on Diego Luna.”

“Oh!  They wrote another profile on Diego Luna.  Someone at that magazine must be really sucking his dick.  Or vice versa.” 

“Yeah, nice!  Anyway…”  He’s clearly not listening to me.  “This chick.  Her panties get all moist when she sees the guy.  Well, I remembered that you are like this accountant for the stars or whatever.” 

“I work for a publicity agency.  I think he’s a client,” I tell the tool as he takes a swig of the Scotch. 

“So, you…uh…you know him?”

“Yes!” 

“Sweet!  Can you like invite him to a party or whatever and introduce him to us!?  She’s not gonna fuck him!  Too intimidated in the presence of celebrities!  We met that chick from the Vampire Slayer show!  What’s her name!?  She’s blonde!” 

“Sarah Michelle Gellar.” 

“No!  The blonde chick!”

“Sarah Michelle Gellar.” 

“No!  She was like the head vampire slayer.”

“Katie Holms.”  The urge to throw this ass down the stairs is rising.

“That’s the one!  Anyway, my girl froze and didn’t say shit to her!  Me and vampire girl had like a ten minute conversation, and my bitch was quieter than a mouse in a monk’s ass!  So, I figured, you introduce us to Diego Luna, and we talk.  She’ll be horny enough to fuck him right then and there but too star struck to do it.  Then, later at my apartment, she’ll fuck me pretending I’m him.  I don’t mind as long as I get the pussy!  Whadaya say!?”

“I don’t know!  I’ve been thinking about shooting him in the head so The New Yorker would shut the fuck up about him.  Though, it could do the opposite, and they would turn him into another James Dean!” 

Obviously not hearing me, he responds, “Is that a yes?”

“Yes, I’ll help you get laid with Diego Luna.” 

“Sweet!”

“Great!  You just let me know when you wanna set it up!”

I hand him my business card so he’ll have my number.  I don’t really want to help him get laid, but I do want to see this plan backfire on him because I know Diego Luna is gonna somehow end up screwing his girlfriend.  And, when he comes to complain to me about it, the immense joy I’m gonna get from will have me higher than a hippie listening to a Grateful Dead record.

“Sweet!  Thanks again!”  He takes the card.  “Hey!  Is that Diddy!?  DIDDY!!!!”  Then, he walks off to annoy the shit of Diddy. 

I walk down the stairs and make my way into the kitchen.  There my wife is talking with the caterers.  I just stare at her.  Her long black curly hair.  Her smooth pale skin.  Her tight black dress clinging to her snowman like body.  Her lips, red as a wagon.  She finished her talk with the caterers about the shrimp, and I sneak up behind and wrap my arms around her like a python. 

“I have to have you.”

“Not now, Tom!” she says.

“C’mon!  Let’s ditch these assholes, go out to the pool house, and fuck like rabbits.”

“Wow!  You’re so charming,” she answers sarcastically.  She unwraps herself from my grasp and walks over to the fridge.  “I can’t leave!  I gotta make sure the party keeps going smoothly.” 

“Fine.  We don’t have to fuck.  Let’s just dance.”

“No!”

“Come on!  Can we just dance!?”

“I can’t dance now!  I’m busy!” 

“Dammit!  I wanna dance with somebody!  I wanna feel the heat with somebody!  I just wanna dance with somebody who loves me!”

“I can’t, Whitney Houston.  I’m busy!  Besides, I don’t want these people snicker about me.” 

“Why would they snicker!?  You’re a great dancer!” 

“I’m a shitty dancer, and you know it!  I would prefer that our guests don’t know it.”

“Oh, come on, Janice!  Who cares if these losers don’t have enough Crystal or caviar!?  Fuck!  They’d be too drunk and too busy talking with each other over nothing to even notice.” 

“I can’t leave,” she says as pulls out some more Crystal.  “Do you know what they’d say if I was to leave a party early!?” she says as she opens one of the bottles.  “I can just imagine the gossip they’ll say about me!” she says as she opens the other bottle.  That I’m an alcoholic!  That I do heroin!  That I’m having an affair with a man!  That I’m having an affair with a woman!  I don’t need that shit!”

“Oh, who gives a shit what they think!?” 

“I do!” 

“Why!?” 

“Because, they’re rich and famous and know people who are just as rich and famous!  And, they talk!  A lot!  And, guess who listens!?  Bloggers!  Gossip columnists!  People with MySpace and Facebook and Twitter accounts!  Soon before you know it, the entire Internet thinks I’m some heroin addict lesbian!”

“Fuck the Internet!  Why care what they think!?  It’s just filled with a bunch of idiots with no self-esteem and can only be happy when they’re bashing people they don’t even know and masturbating to porn!  Why give a damn about them!?” 

“Because not everyone is cool like you, Tom!  Not everyone has such a high self-esteem and apathetic attitude towards people!  Some people need validation from others!  Some people need to praise and respect!  It doesn’t matter if it comes from The New Yorker or some airhead bimbo with fake breasts!  Just as long as it’s approval!  Some people are happy with it, no matter what!  And, guess what!?  I’m one of those people!  Hell, you knew that when you married me!  Now, could you just leave me alone and check on the music!” 

“The music’s fine!  You could hear it from Mars!” 

“Just go make sure no one messes with your equipment!  Jesus!  It’s the one job you have at this party!  Could you just do it and leave me alone!?  Maybe if you do a good job, I’ll blow you after the party!”

“Well, I can’t wait!” I yell at her sarcastically as she exits the kitchen. 

God, I love her.  It may seem like me and Janice are headed for a divorce, but it ain’t gonna happen.  I love her too much.  She’s not like all the other girls at this party.  For one, she’s a woman.  She’s smart, funny, sarcastic, confrontational, and intellectually stimulating.  You can have a real conversation with her.  And, she’s sexy as hell.  I could stare at her body for years and not get bored by it.  She managed to keep herself in good shape over the years.  It’s all that health food.  Plus, she doesn’t look like the other girls.  She’s different, unique.  She stimulates my mind and my loins.  Though, I get the distinct impression she doesn’t feel the same way about me.  She’s always criticizing me.  Telling me I need to eat healthier.  Saying I need to work out more.  Correcting every little mistake I make.  Making disappointing grunts whenever I come before she does; though, that doesn’t happen very often.  She seems annoyed by my antics and attitude.  Her only flaw is that she cares what people think of her, so much so that it drives her crazy.  And, I’m sure she thinks my only flaw is that I don’t care enough about what people think of me, so much so that it drives her crazy.  I think she hates me, and that makes me love her even more.  I’d do anything for her.  Hell, I’m going to couples counseling just to keep her from leaving. 

I get bored and leave the kitchen after eating several shrimp.  I float among the party people like a ghost.  I’m not paying attention to them, just listening to the Beastie Boys coming through the Sony SA-W3800 subwoofer speakers throughout the house.  Then, I notice some blonde bimbo in a floral dress messing with my ES Series Super Audio CD Player with HDMI Output and STR-DH100 stereo receiver.  I rush through the crowd, making a mad dash towards the bitch before she screws something up.  If there’s one thing I hate, it’s people fucking with my electronics!  I make it to the cunt before she pulls out the CD and slap her wrist.

“Hey!” she yells, turning around to face me.  “What the fuck’s your deal!?”

“It’s my house.  It’s my stereo equipment.  That’s my deal.” 

“Well, play some different music.” 

“Um…no.  I told you that it’s my house and my stereo equipment.  Plus the misses put me in charge of the music.  So I say what gets played and what doesn’t.” 

“Oh God!  So, I have to hear these immature jackasses because of you’re the Emperor of the Stereo.” 

“Hey!  The Beastie Boys aren’t immature!”

“Have you not listened to Licensed To Ill!?  That whole album one big sexist, bigoted piece of music, if you can even call it that!” 

“First off, yeah, I have listened to Licensed To Ill!  I have the fucking CD!  And, let me tell you!  The immaturity is one of the things that makes it good!  Second, that was one album from twenty years ago!  You’re gonna judge the Beastie Boys because of one album!?”

“They were originally gonna call it Don’t Be A Faggot!” 

“They’ve apologized for that!  And, they’ve matured since then!  They’re more liberal and understanding now!  Hell, one of them’s a Buddhist!”

“Whatever!  Could you just play something else!?” 

“Fine, princess!  If it will get you off my back and my stereo system!”

She walks off in disgust.  I let Paul’s Boutique end since it was near the end anyway.  Then, I eject it and put the CD back in its case.  Then, I search for Kanye West’s album 808s & Heartbreak, but I don’t find it.  Then, I remember I left it in the car because I was listening to it on the way to New York and back.  I think about going to get it out of the car, but it would take forever to get through these people.  Well, it wouldn’t take forever, but it would be too long to leave this party without any music.  They will ransack this place like the Barbarians attacking Rome if they don’t get any music.  I could play another CD, but there are some songs on that CD I really wanna hear.  Then, I remember my iPod.  I pull it out, turn it on, and go to the song “Robocop.”  I hook it up to my CMT-BX20i Micro Hi-Fi Shelf System. 

I’m about to push play, but something stops me.  I’m not going to be able to enjoy the song.  People are gonna come up to me and bore me to death.  My ears will be raped my soccer practices, new age diets, talk of tattoos of spiritual symbols with conflicting ideals that just shows the person who has them is full of bullshit, record deals, the new novels half these people are writing but will never publish, the latest Independent movie, The New Yorker, Diego Luna, and everything else that will make me want to grab a gun and either shoot myself in the head or shoot everyone else.  I just wanna dance with my wife.  I just wanna be alone with her.  Smell her hair.  Caress her body.  Hold her tight and tell her I love her as our bodies float around the living room. 

But, I can’t because of the bourgeoisie.  The stupid plebeians fucking up my house with their stupidity and ignorance.  Eating all my food.  Drinking all my drinking.  Farting into all my couches.  Vomiting into all my toilets or plants.

“PLAY SOME FUCKING MUSIC!!!!” someone yells.  His irritating voice cutting through the air in my house, shattering my eardrum like a banshee scream.  I turn my head and notice the robot button on my ES Series Super Audio CD Player.  Then, I push play on the iPod.

Suddenly, wires shoot out of my stereo system like alien tentacles in Japanese anime tentacle rape porn.  They come out in every direction and wrap themselves around everyone in the party, bar me and my wife.  They slide up and through everyone’s clothes ripping them off and leaving them all naked.  They slide into every orifice of their bodies.  Suddenly, an electric whirring fills the house.  Electric sparks fly off of all the guests.  Then, all the metal comes flying around and attaches to their bodies.  Their eyes go cold and black.  Their skin turns metallic silver.  Their hair hardens into sheet metal. 

But, for some strange reason, the song doesn’t start.  I look at it, and it turns out I must not have pushed the play button hard enough.  I push it again, and the electronic drums blast throughout the house.  All the robot-guests move to the beat of the song in clunky, locked robotic dance moves.  Then, the music transforms into a nice string orchestra, much more suitable for a piece to play at a cotillion than in a rap song. Everyone partners up and starts dancing all prim and proper.  Robots moving like they’re at party in one of Jane Austen’s novels.  As for me, I start singing the song:

“About the baddest girl I ever seen

Straight up outta movie scene

Who knew she was a drama queen

That'll turn my life to Steven King's

Janice looks at the scene in amazement.  I walk up to her and grab her.  We begin dancing like the robots.

“Up late night like she on patrol

Checking everything like I'm on parole

I told her there's somethings she don't need to know

She never let it go (ooo ohh)

The music picks up, and we all spin around faster.

“Ok, ok, ok, ok,

You will never stop it now

You'll never stop it now

Ok, ok, ok,

You will never stop it now

You need to drop it now (drop it drop it)

The electronic beat returns, and the robots start breakdancing.  Popping and locking and doing the worm all over the place.  Me and Janice are still dancing around like Victorian society people.  She moves in closer and puts her head on my shoulder.

“Cause I don't want no robocop

You moving like a robocop

When did you become a robocop

No I don't need no robocop”

The strings return, and so do the society dancing from the robots.  I move my arms away from Janice’s and wrap them around her body.  She does the same to me.

“Just lookin at your history

You're like the girl from misery

She said she ain't take it to this degree

Well let's agree to disagree (ha)”

I smell Janice’s hair.  Strawberries with a little lilac.  I breathe in every bit of that smell.  It fills my lungs like oxygen. 

“Shorty kinda crazy but it turn me on

Keep it up enough to keep it goin' on

I told her there's somethings she don't need to know

She never let it go (oo ohh)”

The song picks up again.  The robots spin around faster and faster.  They knock over lamps, vase, bottles of alcohol, and anything else breakable.  Glass and ceramic soon cover the hardwood floor and is smashes into powder by the dancing.

“Ok, ok, ok, ok,

You will never stop it now

You'll never stop it now

Ok, ok, ok,

You will never stop it now

You need to drop it now (drop it drop it)”

The electric beat returns.  Then, the robots go crazy.  They grab all the furniture and throw it around or smash it.  I pull Janice in closer.  Then, I reach into my pocket and pull out a portable force field device.  The force field wraps around us and protects up us from flying debris. 

“Cause I don't want no robocop

You moving like a robocop

When did you become a robocop

Somebody please make her stop”

The robots continue to destroy our house.  Now, they’re smashing through the walls and breaking all the windows.  Stucco, mortar, and wood hit the force field, almost in tune with the beat of the song. 

“Stop... drop... whoa

Pop... this I'm cold?... oop?

Ain't used to being told ‘stop’

So I could never be your robot”

The robots don’t stop in their destruction of the house.  They pull out all the appliance and electronics and rip them apart.  Everything electrical is destroyed.  Except for the stereo, of course.  It is controlling them.  Janice moves her head and stares into my eyes.  She looks scared.  Tears flow from her bright violet eyes and roll down her cheeks.  I just look at her with a look that says, “Everything’s okay.  You’re with me.  We’re all alone now.”

“Fast or slow,

You could stay or could go

Now that you know, now that you know

Yeah I had her before,

But that happened before,

You get mad at me though

So just don't ask me no more”

The string orchestra returns, but the robots don’t stop.  In fact, the destruction of the house moves on to the outside.  All the robots on the second and third floors move down to the first floor, and they all start knocking the house down.  A few walk over to the stereo to protect it.

“Ok, ok, ok (uh uh)

It ain't ok, ok, okayayay (uh)”

Violins fill the air.  The house comes crumbling down.  It shatters around us.  Hitting the force field.  Hitting the robots, knocking them down.  Well, except for the ones around the stereo.

“You spoiled little L.A. girl

You're just an L.A. girl

You spoiled little L.A. girl

You're just an L.A. girl”

The house lays in ruins.  The robots emerge from the rubble.  Then, they pair up again and go back to their Victorian dances.  Me and Janice just keep staring at each other like we’re the only people in the world.

“You spoiled little L.A. girl

You're just an L.A. girl (you need to stop it now)

You spoiled little L.A. girl

You're just an L.A. girl (you need to stop it now)?

The robots spin around faster and faster.  Soon, they’re moving at superspeed.  They’re like giant tops, spinning around and hitting each other, sparks flying whenever they collide.  Me and Janice keep staring at each other.  Then, Janice does something strange:  she smiles.  It’s big and bright, like the Cheshire cat.  Her teeth shine like a lighthouse.  I just look at her.  I’ve never loved her more in my life. 

“Oh you kidding me,

You must be joking,

Or you are smoking

Oh, oh, you kidding me,

Oh you kidding me, ha, ha, that was a good one,

Your first good one in a while”

Suddenly, the robots stop spinning.  They unlock from their partners and stagger back.  Then, they explode.  Each one blows up in tune with the sting orchestra.  As this happens, the wires come flying back to the stereo.

‘Your first good on in a while

You need to stop it now,

You need to stop it now,

Ooh you need to stop it now”

I pull Janice in closer.  Our heads tilt.  Our mouths merge.  Our tongues come together and wrap around each other.  The kiss is deep, long, passionate.  Like we haven’t kissed each other for an eternity.  We just keep kissing as the robots explode around us.  The house lays in ruins.  The stereo is all that remains.  Fire and sparks fly everywhere, hitting the force field and landing on the rubble and grass.  Metallic human chunks rain down on us.  The song stops, and Radiohead’s “Reckoner” starts playing.  But, me and Janice don’t care.  All we care about is each other.  And, that’s how the party ended. 

Or, at least that’s how I remember it ending.  I could be wrong.


© Copyright 2019 Payton Smith. All rights reserved.

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