Last Night’s Party
We weren’t supposed to party the last night but we did anyways. I would have a week of detox in the camps and then we would be ready to leave. So I went out with K and L and some others.
I get a text from L. ‘Im outside’
It’s K though, waiting for me. “I’m being followed,” he says.
“Oh ya, by who?” We take each other’s paranoia very seriously.
“Don’t look now. Over my left shoulder.” Then he jerks upright as if he had caught a whiff of something funky. “Oh Havarti, Bardy?!” This last a loud greeting in his comic Bollywood accent.
I couldn’t do the accent very well, but I just thought of his father.
“Oh very gourd,” and then “who do these fuckin asshools think they are being, here?” I tried to imagine myself in a hard-boiled drama scene where the guys are all strung out and considered ruthless. I felt kind of ruthless, you had to when you were out in d-town, it could get weird quickly.
I shot a glance over his shoulder and caught a glimpse of a tall man with glasses and an enormous nose.
“Who, the guy with the nose?” The man was freakishly tall, but that was trumped by an enormously nose that might make him handsome from a certain perspective.
“Not him, but see the little guy?”
I hadn’t noticed the surly little pale vampire of a man with dark rings around his eyes in a vest whom I had assumed to be a crack addict.
“Baron Von Vunklestein?”
“Yes. That little fucker has been following me around all day.” Then back to the accent: “Oooh barti I hope you are ready to party, I have been rehearsing my Karma Sutra.”
He smiled and shuffled on his feet like he was gonna make a game play.
“I’ll take you to the hold.” I spun on my heel.
Whirling rushing tissues, was that somebody’s hat, or scarf? The sound envelops my ears I have to brace myself from crumbling and oozing my way back out into the quiet of the street where there were breaks in the stimulation. The music inside the place drove me and K followed full pace straight to the stimulus heart, which beat like a living thing, at the bowels of this bestiary barn. I couldn’t stop walking, and he was bellowing something about the gyals, or was it the gulls, He might have been talking about sea gulls. He had satellite screens.
“What is this place, a freekin dungeon?” K was intrigued.
It was built around a central octagonal pillar that was one continuous room, in antigrav. The ‘dungeon-ness’ of the place was due to the fact that the whole surrounding, I mean ‘hole’ surrounding the central tube was done like a cultish aztec underground temple, with cells leading off on all sides that were fit with lounges and jacuzzi seats. All the cells rose for many levels above the central floor, where people were drinking and dancing and rolling around with each other. The ground floor, or subfloor was dark like a pit, with crystal torches lighting out the rooms and strange projections of textures.
K turns to me gravely.
“Be careful, you could get raped in here.”
It was somewhat true, not meaning the company you kept, but just the large dark doorways and antechamber cells completely absent of human intervention. In complete dark shadow from floods on the other side of the pillar.
Inside the antigrav it was a floating bar, and Swikdrinks, Intrigens, Ptray, and Liquid Oxygen. The Club was called Aquatint.
By the time I realized what I was doing, I think I was already on mush, and then shrooms, did I say that already? and I did a large tab or half with K of what I assume to be xtc, or the pink ones, at least. Pink Dollaz was playing, I sit in the spaceroom for decontamination then enter the bar, I can feel my clothes melting off me then my muscles melting off the bone the dopes / and or the bar was bad combination, hmm, which one? Im floating now, even the bacteria on my body are floating around me, I’m in a nanobot swarm. I lost consciousness.
Later all I know is I was talking, sitting on the couch talking to this girl, and she said “He’s awake” and I realized I had been conscious the whole time. I was still talking but now I had gained consciousness over what I was talking about.
“This place sucks, lets hit the streets.” K said.
I only did this sort of thing because I felt I free doing it, but I wasn’t sure K thought about it at all.
“Jill’s got her horse,” Said the girl with the soggy cropped bangs.
I knew Jill, and she had brought her horse. ‘Daisy’ was renowned for eating the daisies that grew thick through the cracks in the old highways in the summer.
Not to be outdone, we hit the streets like cavaliers wandering around out of our gourds, I remember being stuck to a girl. We walked up to Rosehill, with Jill riding Daisy, where the air was richer, and to a house party at S W on the island.
K was showing me a lens he had affixed to his camera. It was a vintage and it fit over the camera like a viewfinder with a back and forth button covering the focus ring.
It would take these deadly double depth screen photos and we kept saying “Mean!” When we saw them in the viewfinder.
At one point, we felt like wildlife in the stable habitable ecozone that made up Rich Hill. I could hear and feel a host of night creatures that in sparked through this lush flowered temperate residential designation. We darted among the trees like wild creatures and across lawns and porches with hedged walkways. There seemed to be a mist around the areas where the fertile earth welled up at this elevation, perhaps finding the human crust at this higher elevation more crispy to break through. The lush habit produced the mist or the mist nourished the lush habit, the colonial houses were nearly buried in flourishes of chill daffodils, spongy bulb pereniums, leafy lilys and marsh grasses. Their lawns welled earth like muffin trays stuffed with seed laced with chia sprouts.
We couldn’t stop Daisy from wandering into somebody’s backyard, or should say back park. It was softly lit by luminescent bulbs that were flitted with moths and tiny humming insects. The sound of water trickling came from somewhere, we never found the source, real or artificial. A great old fig tree rose in it’s center to spread it’s branches in an arcing canopy over the spongy deep shag grass already glistening with dew and surrounding this were other ancient specimens of trees like shelters under which the colonial houses squatted, with multiple stacked balconies and verandas. It was idyllic, and we left Daisy grazing in the soft lullaby of the crickets.
We wandered up inside someone’s porch, through an internal veranda, and out onto a kangaroo pocket on the side of a triplex with others exactly identical, it was cozy with 4 of us in the little box, with cushions and rough woven tarps and blankets. We settled down to talk, and the two girls promptly fell asleep.