“This is where I keep my cash and guns.” I reached into the safe and gave him a crystal pipe that under no circumstances did I want returned after its use. I needed two eight balls of the pure stuff and a couple of the heavily cut grams for drunken guests who were going to bum off me and be too wasted to notice the difference. After the transaction was finalized and a discount given in exchange for the pipe, I pocketed the tightly wrapped multicolored packages and led Kentucky Pete outside, walking him across the pumpkin-scattered lawn as he admiringly stared back at the elaborately decorated house.
“Whoa—this place has been turned into one spooky shack, man,” he murmured appreciatively.
“It’s a spooky world, dude,” I said hurriedly, checking my watch.
“Ghoulish, man, ghoulish.”
“The spirits will be moaning tonight, my man,” I said, maneuvering him toward the motorcycle parked lopsidedly at the curb. “I know all about the darkness, dude. I am primed to party and ready for anything.”
Even though it was the end of October an Indian summer had lingered and I shivered at the incongruity of this decidedly nonautumnal weather while Kentucky Pete explained the origins of the holiday: Halloween was based on the Celtic day of Samhain—this was the last day of their calendar and the one time of the year when the dead came back and “grabbed you, dude.” And if you went out you had to wear a costume that made you look like one of the dead so they’d be fooled and leave you alone. I kept nodding and saying, “The dead, yeah, the dead.” We could hear “Time of the Season” playing from inside the house.
“Adios, amigo,” he said, revving up.
“Always a pleasure,” I said, patting him on the back. Then, wiping my hands on my jeans, I scurried up to the house and locked myself in my office, where I snorted two massive lines, and exhaling with relief I rushed to the bar with my empty nonalcoholic beer can and had the werewolf fill it with punch. I was now ready for the night to begin.
The guests started arriving. Costumes were fairly predictable: vampires, a leper, Jack the Ripper, a monstrous-looking clown, two ax murderers, someone who seemed to be just hiding under a large white sheet, a bedraggled mummy, a few devil worshippers, and there were a number of fashion models and a plague-ridden peasant, and, as expected, all of my students were zombies. Someone I didn’t recognize came as Patrick Bateman, which I didn’t find funny and had a problem with; watching this tall, handsome guy in the bloodstained (and dated) Armani suit lurk around the corners of the party, inspecting the guests as if they were prey, freaked me out and somewhat diminished my high, but another trip to the office reclaimed it. Cliques began forming. I was forced into meeting a few of the parents of Robby’s and Sarah’s friends, discussing another national tragedy before the conversation turned to topics about as interesting as last week’s weather: the daughter who didn’t get into the desired preschool, unfair soccer leagues, and a book club someone had just started—and when I suggested that they begin with one of my books I was met with what could only be described as “uneasy laughter.” Jayne was hiding her anger exquisitely by playing the charming hostess while I waited impatiently for Mr. McInerney, who was giving a reading in town and had called earlier asking for our address again. Sometime during all this Jayne insisted I strap the guitar I kept in my office (a leftover souvenir from my Camden days when I was in bands and thought I was going to be the next Paul Westerberg) over my shoulder to hide the marijuana leaf, after she noticed the concerned looks from a few of the parents, and so I was soon spinning around the party greeting guests while strumming the guitar—which was also a clever way of disarming my students from wanting to talk about their stories (always one of my least favorite topics of conversation—and tonight I did not want to be asked, “Mr. Ellis, have you read ‘What I Was Thinking When I Gave Him Head’ yet?”). And I didn’t really focus on anything in particular until Aimee Light appeared.
Aimee Light was in the graduate department at the college and, though not a student of mine, was doing her thesis on my work, despite the consternation of her advisor, who had tried unsuccessfully to talk her out of it. We met at that same party I relapsed at. She was enamored of me but coolly, objectively, and this distance made her far more alluring than the usual round of sycophants I was accustomed to. I played my own role distractedly, which I could tell subtly frustrated her. Yes, it was back to the youthful game playing I experienced as a college student and I felt younger because of it. Aimee Light was lithe and agile and had the perfect body of a big-breasted, small- boned teenager even though she was nearing twenty-four. Blond hair with hard blue eyes and a steely attitude—she was exactly my type and I had been trying to get her into bed for about a month now, but so far had managed only a few makeout sessions in my office at school and one in her off-campus apartment. She kept pretending that her purpose was obscure. As with so many things in my life she just appeared from nowhere.
She was standing with a friend by the bar and chatting up the werewolf while the Eagles’ “One of These Nights” blasted out and I started to dance across the room toward her. Seeing my approach she quickly whispered something to her companion—a girlish gesture that betrayed her innocence—just as I appeared directly in front of her, flushed and beaming in the purple light, lip-synching the song, gyrating my hips, strumming the guitar. It was a risk inviting her, but she took a bigger risk by actually showing up. I winked at her discreetly.
After Aimee introduced us—“This is Melissa—she’s a harridan,” and pretty hot as well—I looked around the packed living room and saw Jayne taking David Duchovny outside to show him the fake graveyard.
“Was that wink your idea of an icebreaker?” Aimee asked.
“Wanna play Pass the Pumpkin?” I asked back.
“I like the shirt,” she said, lifting the guitar up.
“I like the whole package,” I said, looking her over. “What are you going as?”
“Sylvia Plath’s divorce attorney.”
I took her hand and asked the harridan, “Will you excuse us?”
“Bret—” Aimee warned, but her grip on my hand didn’t loosen.
“Hey, we need to talk about your thesis.”
She turned back to her friend and made a pleading face.
Still dancing to the Eagles I dragged her through the maze of the party until we reached a bathroom that I made sure was empty before dancing us both inside and locking the door. It was so hushed in there that we might have been the only two people in the house. She leaned against a wall—casual, sly, not really there. I took a long pull from my beer can and then spit out a small lime green spider.
“I thought you weren’t going to come,” I said accusingly.
“Well, neither did I . . .” She paused. “But, sigh, I wanted to see you.”
I took out a gram and asked, “Wanna bump?”
She stared at me, amused, her arms folded across her chest. “Bret, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“What are these reluctance issues you have?” I asked, annoyed. “Where do they come from—that uptight little town in Connecticut you escaped?” I busied myself with the gram and poured a small pile onto the counter by the sink. “I’m just offering you a line. How difficult a decision is that?” Then, in a bachelor’s voice: “Who’s your hot friend?”
She ignored my tactic. “It’s not the line.”
“Well, good, then I’ll do yours.”
“It’s your wife.”
“My wife? Hey, I’ve only been married three months. Give me a break. We’re still testing the waters—”
“Your wife is here plus you’re a little blotto.” She reached for a black and orange hand towel and wiped my forehead.
“When has that ever stopped us?” I asked “sadly.”
“From
I hunched over the sink and Hoovered up both lines with a straw and then immediately turned around and pressed into her, the guitar dividing us. When I kissed her mouth, it opened with no resistance and we fell against a wall. I swung the guitar over my shoulder and kept pushing up against her, an erection pulsing in my jeans, while she kept pretending to push me away, but not really. Somewhere during all of this my sombrero fell off.
“You’re so hot I can’t keep my hands off you,” I panted. “Have you ever played doctor?”
She laughed and broke away. “Look, this isn’t gonna happen here,” and then, studying my head, “Did you do something to your hair?”
I kissed her on the mouth again. And she responded even more urgently this time. We were suddenly interrupted by my ringing cell phone. I ignored it. We kept kissing but I already felt the pangs of disappointment— there was no chance anything more was going to happen in this bathroom tonight—and the phone kept vibrating in my back pocket until I had to answer it.
