Tales of an Ordinary Idiot Part I I walk down the narrow hallway, squinting at the dark numbers on the dark-stained doors: 303, 305, 307, 30 . I stop in front of 30 and reach up to touch the wood where the 9 should be. The varnish there is rough and discolored. The apartment at the end of the hall is the one I am looking for. Bright streamers of light and sound furl out through the gaps between the door and its frame. As I approach it, my feet slap against the gray, tile floor. I reach for the tarnished doorknob the same way I do once a year, in the improbable hope that I will enjoy a party. The cold, heavy knob turns loosely, no longer the precision instrument that it once was, and the door swings open on tired, sagging hinges. Squinting, I step in amongst the booming voices, the gay laughter, the glinting of light off ice and glass and cut-rate diamonds. "Z," Michelle yells from somewhere inside the blinding glory of her birthday party. Blinking rapidly, I turn in a slow half-circle, trying to detect her approach by motion and sound. She throatily hollers my name at random intervals, and I know that each time she does, she raises both arms above her head and waves them vigorously. A white form explodes from the mass and crashes into me, a warm, elastic collision with limbs wrapping all round and attaching like they had suckers. I stumble but do not fall, my heart pounding. She slowly extracts herself from our brief, reeling union. "Z, its been months. Why do you do that to me?" "Uh, well, you only invite me once a ..." "It's an open invitation, Stupid," and she steps back and slugs my shoulder. "Owwww." She steps in close again, body to body, head tilted back to look me in the eye. "That's not all you deserve." She whirls away into the crowd. The vision of her open, lascivious smile in her fleshy, acme scarred face, is stuck to my mind's eye like a handful of hot asphalt. Half-blind, I stumble towards the drink table. I pour cheap gin and some tonic into a plastic cup, but do not bother to look for a lime. Raising the cup, I gulp the bitter, oily liquid until its burn replaces the queasy feeling in my stomach. I would need a river of gin. As I lower the cup to my side, I see Andrew Dobson approaching. He is a tall, handsome man, a regular at Michelle's parties, and a crowd favorite. "Jacob, nice to see you again." Machination of facial muscles raises the corners of his mouth, and his handshake crushes several of the tiny bones in my hand. "How have you been?" "Suitable for daily use," I respond. Andrew laughs until tears come to his eyes. Machination of facial muscles raises the corners of my mouth. "Wooh, that's a good one," he says, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. "Mind if I use it?" "Not at all. How have you been?" "Can't complain. Wouldn't do any good anyway, would it? Nobody listens." He winks. "Michelle tells me your career is going gangbusters." "I'm moving up the ladder. Pay's good. I don't hate it." Andrew's wife slides up next to him. Peroxide hair, violet eyes, and the body of a professional volleyball player, which she used to be. I try not to look at her tanned cleavage, and fail. She gives me her frozen-margarita smile. "Hi, Jacob." "Hi, Linda." She looks up at her marvilous husband. "Honey, the Robertsons are here. We should say, `Hello.`" "Of course, Dear." Machination of facial muscles raise the corners of his mouth. "Nice to see you again, Jacob. Give me a call sometime." "Sure." A bowling ball settles into my stomach. Once again I'm the grade school kid on the playground with no one to play with. I'm the junior high boy at the dance, sitting in the dark recesses of the bleachers. I'm the college freshman at a club in the big city, who jerks around on the dance floor for a few minutes, then retreats to a tiny table to sip a four dollar soda. Michelle emerges from the crowd, dragging a pale, thin man with her that I have never seen. She gives me a grin that strikes terror deep into my heart. He has a puckered up face, twisting and grimacing, with small snorts erupting from his nose at random intervals. I think he giggles once. "Z, this is Ed. Ed, this is Jacob." I reach out my hand to shake his. He starts to reach out his, then pulls it back and presses both hands to his face, trying to suppress more giggles. I shoot a look at Michelle, whose grin of pure, untainted wickedness only widens, if that's possible. I notice some people are edging away from us, which is odd, considering we are standing next to the drink table. "You would know Ed if you had come to my last party, Z. He doesn't get out much and my parties so delight him." Snorts and giggles escape from behind Ed's hands. "I knew the two of you really had to meet." Then she turns and is gone. The space around Ed and I grows, and eyes turn our way, some nervously, some amused. Drops of sweat run down my sides. "So, Ed, what do you do in life?" I ask. He breaks into braying laughter, dropping his hands now, head back. He chokes it off and looks at me with watery, blue eyes. "I'm sorry, I..." Giggles and snorts erupt again, a short bray, then he wrestles himself back under control. "This is the funniest..." giggle, snort. "How likely is it...," giggle, "that you even..." snort, "exist?" He looks at me, his watery eyes twinkling. We have quite an audience gathering. "Uh, well, mathematically speaking, I guess its..." "That life even exists on this planet?" "Um, I couldn't say precisely..." "How likely..." snort "...that your parents..." giggle "...were born..." bray "...met at a convenient..." snort, giggle "...and had..." bray "...you?" Now the whole room is gathering around us. Ed is beginning to sweat, his wispy hair damp over his high forehead. I look around wildly for Michelle. "And these people?" he twists from the waist, sweeping his arms around the room. "That they were..." snort, bray "...born, met..." bray, giggle "... Michelle..." bray, bray, knees bent, head back, "...tonight..." giggle, snort, bray "...here?" He splutters, chokes, tries to wrestle himself under control, tears streaming down his face. He stands up straight and points a trembling arm at me. "Their stupid jokes..." a giggle escapes again, "...their scented..." snort, "...egos, their makeup and..." giggle, snort, giggle, bray. His knees are bent, his head thrown back. "You care..." bray, bray...what..." bray, giggle, snort, bray, "...what..." hysterical laughter, almost screaming, "... they..." hysterical laughter, "...think." He has no control left. Toppling to the floor, he writhes on the ground, hysterics consuming him. The entire crowd presses round the circle where we are. They glance quickly between he and I, and among themselves. On the floor, Ed is turning a very comforting shade of asphyxiated blue. Michelle breaks into the circle, her face unusually serious, and barks out, "Z, help me." She grabs Ed under one of his shoulders and drags him towards the door. A bit slowly, I move to grab him under the other shoulder and help. When we get him through the door, she lets go of Ed and slams the door on all the curious faces inside. Ed begins taking ragged breaths between hysterical fits. I look across his jerking body to Michelle. Her slate eyes regard me above a cheshire-Michelle smile. "I invited him just for you, Z." I stand up. "Goodnight, Michelle." I turn and walk down the hallway. I can feel those eyes on my back.