Fingerless Gloves (17 page)

My father and mother are not young. They had me when they were well into their 30s. I remember, one day, coming home from class my freshman year in college and, for the first time, I noticed how my father’s appearance had changed. He was always a slight man, not very tall, with dark brown hair. That year, for the first time, I noticed the stomach that began to weigh down his posture, sinking him closer to the ground. I noticed the gray hairs forming wings along his sideburns. The top of his hair was still brown, but fading and retreating backwards. I wondered when he would hire a service to come and shovel the snow instead of insisting, year after year, that he’d shovel it himself. I helped where I could, but I never seemed to do a good enough job. I wondered when the guys he worked with would have a cake with his name on it before sending him on his way…when he’d get that house somewhere warm like he always talked about. He worked harder than anyone I had ever seen, and should there be any justice in this life, he should be rewarded for all his efforts.

To this day, even after the worst blizzards, the man still shovels his own snow. He has since bought a snow blower to make the job a bit easier…yet, everything the blower doesn’t catch, he shovels by hand. He still helps me file my taxes and reminds me to service my car. He taught me how to unplug a toilet, change a tire, fix a fuse, and buy a suit. He was the first to see me graduate both high school and college. I never once let him see me drunk or stoned. Hell, I never even swore in front of him.

While my mind deactivated and the sleep spindles began, the clock silently clicked past 5:20am. I remember thinking, right before I passed out, that if I woke up at noon, James would probably just be getting discharged. He’d want to keep the plastic bracelet with his name and the name of the hospital printed on it. What is it about those bracelets that people find so memorable? I still have mine from when I got my tonsils out.

My thoughts shifted to a fast-food lunch, full of saturated fats… and possibly a movie in the evening. There was some gross-out comedy playing at the local multiplex. It was about a group of grown men who, by accident, find themselves in South Beach for Spring Break. Suddenly they’re entered in this beer pong tournament, which they will inevitably win. The humor was gross and the reviews were fair…but it was just the kind of movie you could get stoned and ignore. With that plan beginning to cement in my head, I clicked the television off and rolled over onto the unbruised side of my face. I knew I’d wake up with a stiff neck, but I’d rather that than a swollen head. My room began to turn into a Spirograph of blacks and grays.

The best night of my life, hands down, was James Squire’s graduation party. It was the beginning of June, before the temperature got too depressingly hot. That night, it was a perfect 70-something degrees. His backyard, while not overwhelming, was big enough to hold a tent, two kegs, tables full of food and tables for beer pong. Most important, it was big enough to hold 30 carefully chosen guests, from James’ college friends to the awkward girls who grew up to become the painfully attractive girls. James’ parents clearly explained to him that things should not get out of control and, if the police were called or involved, James was on his own. Neighbors were notified of the party and some were even invited to stop by. The Squires made it clear that there were to be no minors (there weren’t) and no live music… just some weak, tin can computer speakers hooked up to a laptop. No one was to drive home and keys would be collected at the door. Even if it was kids from the neighborhood, they were to either walk home or sleep over. The food was purchased well in advance from a local pizzeria: two trays of wings, ten pizzas, two six-foot subs, and a smattering of chips and beer and soda, in addition to the two kegs of Keystone Light. The other stipulation oddly set forth by James’ parents: no liquor.

I helped set up the tables, the tent, the chairs and all the hanging lights and tiki torches. I picked that evening’s playlist and I was there to say goodbye to Mr. And Mrs. Squire when they left at around 7:30 that evening. They were going to dinner, out for drinks with friends, then staying over at James’ uncle’s house. They would be back tomorrow morning around 11am, when they expected everyone to be awake and cleaning up the wasteland that had previously been a decent suburban yard. Mr. Squire gave me a firm handshake, looked me directly in the eye and told me to “keep everyone in line.” With that, a trail of expensive cologne and a distant clamping of high-heeled shoes were left behind as the back door shut. A few moments later, with over an hour until guests were scheduled to arrive, I heard their car start and roll down the driveway.

The first guests were girls I had never spoken to, but who had apparently built up some sort of transient relationship with James. The girls were high school leftovers, like the last salty bits of Chex Mix at the bottom of the aluminum bag… all pretzel pieces and no bagel chips. They remembered me, by name at least, even though I was the one who had stayed home to go to school. James’ friends from college arrived. They were a group of guys who, to me, could be interchanged with any standard group of guys. At the time, as I passed judgment, all I could think was that there was nothing definable about any of the people at this party. They were all good-looking, thin… the girls were made up and the guys were gelled and artfully adorned in polo shirts double-layered on top of more polo shirts. By 8:30 that night, after the few early guests had arrived, the food began to be delivered. The catering van pulled up and two greasy teens piled out to start bringing pizzas, trays of wings, and a gigantic sandwich into the backyard. The two delivery guys, perhaps struggling with social situations, grew increasingly awkward around the girls. I was worried about them dropping a giant tray full of salad.

As the night went on, people came and people went. I wasn’t sure whether I missed Beth or not. She was on vacation with her family for the week, and for the first time, I posted up at a party and didn’t feel the weight of girls, worlds, words, and expectations weighing down on my neck. I was convinced, on the cusp of turning 22 years old, that life had been unduly hard to me. I was not built for stressful situations and, if possible, avoided them at all costs. At the time, there was no Streets, no Weedman Tim, no Vin Thomas, nothing… just our town, the job hunt, our faces getting lined and old. I realized that I had gone through the most formidable parts of adolescence and entered young adulthood as someone who remained just about completely anonymous. That night in June, deep in the backyard that slowly collected empty cans, cigarette butts and discarded plates and cups, James held court. He spoke to everyone, drank fast-enough, but at an even pace, and managed to target his “one girl.” The girl on whom he would remain focused the entire night, until eventually his attention paid to her led to something or led to nothing. It was a skill and an art. Come to think of it, that night, I can picture that girl’s face. I never did quite catch her name.

I got drunk. I had held miniature, unimportant conversations with different girls and bros, none of which lasted more than 15 minutes. But all the beer coupled with the fact that I couldn’t eat pizza fast enough to soak up the suds in my stomach left me seeing 3D pictures with no glasses. I hate beer. I hate beer because I think it tastes like old soda mixed with the aluminum liner of the can…essentially, to me, that’s all it’s ever been. However, with the only liquor at the party being drunk out of the flasks and private bottles of people I hardly knew, I had to settle.

James came up to me about halfway through the night…he was wasted. He leaned a hand on my shoulder and used it to steady himself to stand up straight. He said, “Anton, you look like you’re having the worst night. Have you moved at all from this exact spot?”

I answered, “You know me… I’m posted up… this is great. I should have bought a small bottle of something though. I’m feeling antsy and this isn’t cutting it.” I put an empty, crushed can next to the eight already-empty cans surrounding me on the table.

I knew almost no one at James’ party. I didn’t or couldn’t remember the people I went to high school with. My college “friends” were just transient commuters whom I rarely saw outside of a classroom or a hallway. I gave them a hello, or a head nod…but I never actually took the time to get to know them, go out with them, pay attention to their lives. At James’ graduation party, although I didn’t get laid and I didn’t enjoy any of the perks of being drunk (such as being willing to hit on any girl, having upgraded dance skills, the ability to speak my mind), was a night of clarity. I had to finally learn to exist in the world.

Before James went inside with his one girl, he came up to me reeking like alcohol and cigarettes and the pizza grease. He said, “Anton, man…this is about being loose. Are you loose? Can you stand up? There are some girls inside who could use you…they’re right there in the kitchen, by the bean dip. Go to them.”

I never went to them. I watched as James Squire disappeared behind the sliding glass door that led to the kitchen. The girl went in first, and he followed, hand on her back, closing the door behind him without looking. He said a few words to someone standing near the kitchen table, then his girl took him by the hand and the two of them were gone. I mean, it was the kid’s graduation party…he should be getting laid. I, on the other hand, had been half-schmoozing, posted up at a rented folding table, for what had been going on five hours.

The party began to thin out. First, some of the groups of girls who had tried, albeit unsuccessfully, to find a suitable male at the party, began packing it in. They grabbed handbags and their friends, then placed empty cans of beer and sticky red Solo cups in the trash. They said final words and spoke promises to keep in touch…then made soft exits out the side gate. I heard the gate clink open and lock closed as they left.

The guys who had not scored with any girls were the next to go. They gave the party a final once-over and, some of them half drunk, began to trash pizza crusts and dark brown beer bottles. Some of them had mud on their shoes and wet marks on their pants. The mud was from the rainstorm the night before, which left the ground under the tent with a certain slippery give. Mud was kicking up onto sneakers and the front of pants. The wet spots were from casually spilled drinks, either their own or someone else’s. The shirts, which had been so carefully plotted out, pressed and matched, were now wrinkled and half-buttoned…evidence of a long night of drinking gone by. Those shirts and those distressed jeans would be clumped in piles on bedroom floors, left half hung on hampers, washed by mothers who didn’t know any better. Hangovers would be dealt with. On the ride home, nerves would creep up the spines of these guys. They would wonder about being pulled over and what the consequences of that were. Were they too drunk to drive? Not my call… I didn’t really know. As far as I know, they all made it home without incident.

Last to leave were those who came to the party by themselves, but somewhere over the course of the night, had found someone worth leaving with. The pairings were strange…some of the girls from our town were taking James’ friends from school home with them. Some of the girls from James’ school were leaving with random guys I didn’t know and never even saw come into the party. The makeshift couples fished for their keys and walked out laughing, drunk, giggling, holding hands, with arms around waists. During the night, they would make out and sleep in cars, on beds, on floors. Some were making their way inside the Squires house, towards the basement or the guest bedroom or the blow up mattresses set up in the living room. As they left into the night or into the house, two by two, the music, kept at a low volume, remained. It was this idea of careless romance that I wish I could have let myself experience. Before I knew it, James’ party was about over at 2:15am. Some random indie rock, infused with fuzzy guitars and muted drums, played host to unused plates, two tapped kegs, 1/4 of a 6-foot sub and half a pizza.

As far as best nights go, you could say that was pretty sub-par. Usually, a best night is the night you lose the v-card, you find your favorite album, you get drunk with your friends. Best nights are when you take a random road trip, you get the girl, you do something remarkable, you win. Most people’s best nights don’t center around a dozen beers and bouts of observation. I guess it was the odd serenity I found in being surrounded by strangers who, for the most part, weren’t strangers at all.

After everyone had gone inside, I walked over to the speakers and faded the music down, then turned the music off. I did a lap around the backyard, dragging a garbage can behind me, drunkenly putting the garbage into the can. I put the chairs back orderly around the tables, emptied out the water (that used to be ice) surrounding the kegs, and unplugged the lights strung up underneath the tent. The backyard was dark and quiet, but make no mistake about the remnants of the party remaining. Cigarette butts stuck up like uncut grass; beer cans were lodged under the fence, and the ground had been churned up to mud. When I was done, I went inside and, stepping over people sleeping, I shut the downstairs lights and locked the front door. I found a blue, lumpy beanbag chair left unoccupied in the living room. Knowing my neck would suffer the consequences; I reluctantly prepared my body to sleep on that uneven nylon bag. My button-down was folded on the floor next to the chair and I, just a few hours removed from most-likely having to suffer through the spins, managed to sleep it off in a V-neck undershirt, belt, jeans and socks.

Every night after James’ graduation party was an experiment. I went out with co-workers, tried some dating websites, made myself more visible. I used my computer in cafes, food shopped at the local farmer’s market… I ate dinner at the pancake house instead of alone in my apartment. I started reading in the park and making phone calls to old friends instead of watching movies or listening to music by myself. I went to more concerts with whoever would go to concerts with me. I started talking to Weedman Tim…and that’s where all this started…how I numbed the worst night of my life. I wasn’t a drug dealer…I was never cut out for that. But, the more visible I was, the more people saw me stoned. Fact is, I became a doer rather than a stoner…someone who smoked weed and sought out adventures instead of the confines of a couch. People started asking me where to get pot, who to call, what to do. My town wasn’t exactly privy to the drug trade. James was right by my side, smoking, showing up at the local bars high.