November 16, 2008

one girl, one cup




"Oh my God. What a shit show!" H says to me, on the balcony. We're sharing a cigarette and he's getting that glazed look in his eye that lets me know what time it is. Just then, Hawk comes stumbling out the door. I notice that she's towering over me. I don't remember her being a towererer. I look down. Strapped to her legs are knee-high black patent leather 9 inch heeled trannie boots.
Yes, I know exactly what time it is now.

M squeezes past the swarm of uninvited undergrads to tell me she's leaving and repeats H's former sentiments. She looks just about as scandalized as I feel.
"Well, at least she's having fun for her party, right?" I say with a shrug. I look over to hear the lady herself swearing up a storm at the loitering crowds beneath her apartment to get the hell gone. I am immediately concerned how that extra 9-inch boost is making it much more likely for her to fall over the balcony. She doesn't and the door slams a moment later just as some song plays that everyone likes that I don't know.

I like spending time outside on the balcony at parties like this sometimes. Mostly because it feels and smells like a rain forest swamp of human sweat inside the place. It's also easier to hear and talk to people. Not that I recognize anyone, really. I feel old.
I watch a curly-haired girl clamor upon a skinny brunette whose acquaintance I've just made. She's trying to get him to do something or go somewhere, I don't know what. He won't pay her any attention and I can tell the way she looks at me and pretends that he's not talking to me, she probably hates me. She hates my high-waisted shorts and lace tights. She's hates my cigarette and my hair and probably the fact that I'm asian and female. All this in one look. I can't remember the last time I felt resentment and enjoyed it. Bitch, please.

Sometime after the drunk weeping drag queen on the stairs and H excitedly fulfilling his undergrad manifest destiny on G street, I find myself fleeing a potentially tricky situation when mixed with sunrise. If you don't know where the bathroom is, you probably shouldn't be sleeping there.

The next afternoon, Hawk did indeed have a fun time at her party. The 7 of us pieced together our nights over diner food. As our food was being served, she grabbed a water glass and stuck her face in it and it quickly filled to the brim with what looked like a raspberry smoothie, as Cole leaped out of the booth. I put down my utensils and pushed away from the table, beside myself. Stephen, the trooper he is, patted her back and coaxed her to the bathroom. He placed napkins over the offending cup and wiped the area where it overflowed, with the same sheepish grin he always wears.
I looked down at my eggs florentine, still beside myself. And now my eggs. My breakfast was now involved, I just realized. It was just as present as I, the two eggs like hollandaise-covered eyeballs witnessing the whole thing. I could not bring myself to eat it while that cup was still on the table. Even nestled under leaves of napkins, I knew it was there. A vile beacon. We all looked at each other, speechless.
Our waiter asked us if everything was alright. There really wasn't anything to do but laugh. She returned to the table, composed, got rid of the vom cup and we proceeded to tuck in. Mostly I was just impressed and relieved that it did not spill over the small glass. I mean, I don't vomit often but I know that when I do, it's an awful entire-body experience in which you give up voluntary control of your body and your innards just do what they must to get everything out of your digestive system. And I mean everything. I'm always alarmed and shocked at how much a person can vomit at once, how a person can contain that much. As far as water glasses go, it couldn't have held more than 10 oz.

"One girl, one cup," was all I could say.






Oh and I was delighted to see Cole sporting my AdiTRONdacks edition tee.

No comments: