I Make Good Sounds at Parties

Russell Goldman

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I’m in an Uber by myself. It’s cramped and there are Skittles on the floor and it smells like peas. I breathe deeply. You’re just going to a party.

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I’ve repeated this mantra ever since I was first invited to a house party at 13 and asked to leave because I hid in the next room reading Cirque du Freak: The Lake of Souls. House parties are where I mispronounce my own name, eat too much hummus, scream about Collateral Beauty and vomit out all the hummus. At parties, I forget how to make good sounds with my mouth when I talk.

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But tonight, as the songs say, is the night. My chance to say Piss Off to anxiety and What’s Cookin’ to self-assurance. Tonight, I will make good sounds.

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I step out of the Uber and walk to the door and write a text to Person A. “Hey I’m at Mary’s birthday.” Hmm. Pretty nondescript. Try again. “Hey I know we have labeled our months of coitus as #casual but I would love to see you at Mary’s and progress our relationship but hey am I an uninflated tire because NO PRESSURE” Hmm. A bit too descript. Try again. “Hey! Are you coming to Mary’s party?” I read it aloud. Nice. Send it. Ball’s in her court!

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I open the door and scan the crowd. I’ve seen that dude with the curly hair before with Nate, but there’s no Nate. I shake my head. Can’t introduce myself without Nate.

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I see Katherine over in the corner– I know her! – talking to a girl I don’t know. If I go over and join them, I might interrupt a life-altering conversation about parental trauma, or the Navy. Leave them be.

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I’m staring at strangers too long. They squint back, confused why I’m looking at them like they murdered my son.

Mary taps my shoulder. I scream HAPPY BIRTHDAY and I give her that kind of hug that looks like you’re checking someone’s back for lumps and I ask her about her life and she talks about her busy desk job for Mr. So And So and I say “Of course I too love the industry” and she asks “What are you doing these days work-wise?” and I say “Well I’m going to make the rounds but it was good to see you Mary!”

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I go to the counter and fill a solo cup with vodka and wet cement so I can poison myself and stay planted at the same time. Do not make any eye contact.

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Oh fuck, I say as I make eye contact, it’s Cyrus. I haven’t thought about Cyrus since we swiped for each other in college and small-talked about graduation week and I said “So how’s your night?” and he never messaged me again. Cyrus glances at my over another dude’s shoulder: Is that Russell? I cross my eyes and shake my head violently. Russell isn’t here right now, Mrs. Torrance.

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I go to the next room, back against the wall and slap myself. You made the choice to come here. Engage. Speak. Be a fucking human being. I tuck in my sweater. Walk around like you’re a goddamn prince, you worthless piece of shit!

I check my phone. No text. Ball’s in her court!

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I see a guy setting up a game of Slap Cup. I’ve never played this before. Now that I’m a prince, I can change that. I ask him, “I’ve never played this before. Now that I’m a prince, can I change that?” He squints and shrugs. “Sounds good.”

He ushers his friends over and serves and spikes the ball into my cup. I roll my eyes as I drink and spill some cement from the side of my lip. They laugh. I smile. Crushing it.

 

“Your turn, man!”

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I back up and spike the ball. It flies through the air, hits a wall, hits the floor, hits a wall, knocks someone’s drink out of their hand, knocks someone’s face off of their head, and dribbles on the floor until somebody yells “Yo, whose ball is this?”

Everyone stares at me. Frowns.

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I grin the kind of surprised, open-mouthed grin someone gives you when they accidentally slam a door in your face. “I’ll get it.”

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I check my phone. No text. Ball’s in her court!

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I move down the hall. In the middle of the bathroom line I stop and stare at the back of someone’s hair. It’s Her hair. It’s fine. You can and should be in the same space as Her by now. I wrap around to find Her talking closely to Jeff. The one that I insist, much to my friends’ apathetic dismissal, looks a damn lot like me.

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They’re not kissing, but they’re talking so closely that they seem to be breathing into each other. They stand separate from the rest of the universe, as if they never needed to go out to a party in the first place.

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I think about the last time I was at a party with Her. I had felt okay.

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I bolt. I need another drink.

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I go to the kitchen and my hand shakes as I pour myself a cup of arsenic and the Slap Cup Guy shows up and barks “Where’s the ball” and I say “I couldn’t find it” and he raises his fist and says “Sure you can” and I duck under him and run into Cyrus who turns and sneers and like the ghost he is screams “BOO!” and I drop my arsenic and it spills on the floor and burns through the wood paneling and Mary literally shits a chicken and I say “I’ll grab the paper towels” and jump over the chicken and mid-leap I slip on the arsenic and fall to the kitchen floor face-down mouth-to-arsenic and GRUNT and She recognizes my GRUNT and runs into the room and asks “Why are you on the floor, Russell?” and her boyfriend laughs because he’s trash and I see the ball FLY past the kitchen toward the front door and I push Her aside and CRAWL, face down, shoes untied, pants falling below my waist, weaving between Nate’s legs and Katherine’s legs and a thousand strangers’ legs and suddenly the ball is kicked away and someone picks me up from my collar and it’s the man whose face I knocked off and he pulls me close to the hole where his mouth used to be and screams, “YOU DO NOT BELONG HERE.”

 

I push the door open and fall out of the house. The cold air hits my bare legs.

 

I stand up, pull up my pants, and check my phone.

 

No text.

 

I am not going out again. Not for a long, long, long—

 

A text pops up. It’s not Person A. It’s Nell. “There’s a thing at Dylan’s tn come thru!!1”  

 

No.

 

…probably not...

 

…maybe…

 

…better than being alone.

 

“What’s the address?”