I found myself draped in a skanky slip of a red night gown converted half-assed into a dress. Draped in a blue bathrobe, I felt somewhat out of place. The image of an old lady sitting at a cocktail table earlier that evening, wearing a black sequined gawty dress, came to mind.
Who were these men in flannel and berets? They were smoking pipes out of an era that was lost more than fifty years ago. Jungle juice, vodka, and lots of smoke was traveling around with a grey cloud of people. Bands that sounded badly out of tune with the prospect of angsty anger toward romance sang with their guitars and drums in our basement.
I pushed past crowds of people clustered together in their own private groupings so I could reach the front basement area. Past the grungy carpet I used to sleep on I felt the cold through barefeet among a sea of boots. Finally. A familiar face. Mr. Mustache is standing with his leg stretched out and a beer clasped in his hand. Chain smoking with the other.
The eyes of others were monsterous. Largely focused on the hope of a nearby fame. Could it be? There eyes were large enough to eat the drumset. Engorging all the people and the publicity of myspace photos documenting the evening. Eyes were everywhere. Lurking out of the corners of sofas. Darting between lines of drugs. Flashing flirtatiously at the concept of dare-we-think one night stands?
I sat down onto my mattress after some time had passed. Wrapped around the curl of constant cigarettes, I could feel my face fading. Only ten thirty? How could that be?
With the flash of untying robes into the night life of toilet papered bathrooms, I liked the feel of silk. In an instant, it might be gone.
I hear people in the bathroom…
from Nic’s bedroom. I think there’s a small group of people smoking pot in the shower.
Someone Nic works with by the name of Keith, bought some dope from us. While we were sitting in the room, he started to talk about all the old things I have heard just like everyone else, a million times over.
– his adventures of warrants out for him in three states.
-his girlfriend is annoying and out of line talking about his dope addiction.
– mentions casually the word ‘addiction’ as if it is in fashion.
Keith is the kind of guy who likes to think of himself as breaking all the rules because he hates the fact he sucks up to get where he is. Probably the kind of guy who would be ashamed by family wealth. He likes flirting with the idea of a scene in heroin. He looks for danger in office buildings.
College girls are in the next room…
“It’s funny how South Philly is so different from West Philly.”
“Yeah, I know. It’s so much more laid back here, but I don’t know.”
“Yeah, I mean I guess these are like, what happened to those people our age that didn’t go to college.”
I was fixing up the dress above my breasts. Tugging at the straps and constantly ‘checking’. Oozing sex, I felt the eyes belonging to long shirts and leggings of nervous chatter. Aware of small, awkward moments, thoughts contained of;
A red lollipop licked and sucked between Mr.Mustache and I.
Barefeet in the basement of bands.
Sitting cross legged with a cigarette tucked between fingers of a rouged lifestyle consisting ‘pure funk.’
The girl who said nothing but kept sitting very closely with cigarettes going both ways.
The satin sensations faded early in the night, but music was still breathing safely from downstairs. I can hear them now singing drunk from the social symphony in awe.