She
was sober when she came down the stairs, at least one person there could swear
to that.
cog: Yeah, she was, I saw her; Angie and
I were standing in the hall downstairs and I was watching her come down with
the dog. Is it Harvey? I can’t remember, hang on a second
addressing offstage presence
cog: Is Diana’s dog called Harvey? No,
not, Diana, Diana who had the party on Saturday. Is her dog called
Harvey?
and returning
cog: She doesn’t know. But she wasn’t
drunk then. Or at least, if she was she didn’t look it. It wasn’t like
she was clinging to the bannister or falling down or anything. Not like later,
right? Jesus, was that all over school by first recess Monday.
She
feels the dog is shadowing not her so much as the scent of Judas she carries
upon her clothes, or is perhaps trying in some way to reciprocate that, to
leave upon her something of itself for her to take back home. At some point
across the evening though this dog, like almost everything else, will disappear
completely.
But
it is still moving with her when she crosses through the kitchen to the fridge
and opens the door adorned by that single universal childish drawing. Inside
she scans the V8 juice, the strawberries, the bottle of Heinz ketchup, the tin
of Coke, Philadelphia cheese, some meat on a yellow plate only partially
covered by tinfoil, Delmonte Sweet... illegible, and the plastic container of
what she believes to be a cabbage-based coleslaw. There is to the taste of this
something she cannot quite place, and she will come back to it at least twice
more in attempt at its definition, and then again much later when she returns
to the party having been gone awhile.
And
beer, of course, each cold tin of each Coors sixpack circled at the neck in its
plastic hoop.
Her
thirst is almost immediately quenched at just the sound of the tin’s seal
broken open by the lifted ring. Drinking itself proves a clumsy affair, and a
deal of the beer flows down and off her chin onto her shirt, soaking through
the red plaid open below her throat.
ache1
before she became ache1: Oh fuck off.
She
pulls at the front of the material, as if flapping it away from herself and
back might in any way facilitate its drying, all too aware this is not
how to make an impression just as her mouth finds itself exit to what she knows
for fact to be the single loudest belch she has ever produced.
cog:
Hey HEY! Shut the door you dick.
It
is in turning to ascertain the source of this insult that she accidentally
walks into the side of the kitchen unit, catching the side of her thigh. The
laughter she hears seems distant; she finds herself wondering if it is perhaps
pre-recorded, like on television, all concept of the reality through which she
moves leaving her behind. It is exactly this as allows her to shrug off any
sense of herself as spectacle, useful in the very next second when she walks
face first into a cupboard door, and without even time to protect herself in
any way falls over onto the kitchen tiles.
ache1
before she became ache1 (lying now quite still, and talking to
no-one in particular): These aren’t tiles. They look, this looks like it’s
tiled but it’s not. It isn’t tiled,
stretching
out one hand and pressing it hard and flat to the surface
ache1
before she became ache1: just, this is a roll of stuff, these are
printed on. They look like tiles but they’re not tiles. These are not
tiles.
She
has no memory of standing up but understands she must have to be again upright,
and discovering the can in her hand to be empty, returns to the fridge for
another which she is draining almost commensurate with its opening. Crumpling
it between both hands, she tosses it away from herself across the floor.
[Scene
missing]
Later,
when she is drunk enough to have no fear whatsoever in exploring the house, she
enters the bedroom of her hostess’ older sister, a space which has the
appearance of being only temporarily vacated. On the desk sits a word
processor, the few visible lines of text eventually cohering for her into a
section of essay, the cursor blinking on, off, and on at the last period.
Poking
at the keys with something akin to predestination, she types
ache1
before she became ache1: TXWPUAFP
cog: Just... a complete fucking nuisance,
you know? I went to the bathroom and then down to get a Coke, and I come back
and find some fucking immature asshole’s been in typing shit on my essay. Not,
I mean, it wasn’t that big a deal, that part anyway, but then I had to go back
through all of it to make sure they hadn’t, I didn’t want to be handing
it in with random shit typed all over it. It was fine, it was fine, but then of
course I’m checking all over my room to make sure stuff hadn’t been stolen or
whatever. This is... I have said to my folks for years about a lock on
my door, and this is exactly what I mean.
The
den empties of its few inhabitants at her entrance. In that it is the first
thing she can comfortably reach she opts by default for the beanbag, the large
fabric covering of Elvis still warm from whatever departing guest’s prior use.
ache1
before she became ache1 (each word sounding itself hard won): I want
only to be where I am.
She
wants to lie exactly where she is and close her eyes, but doing so seems to
release her from any notion of stability, both vertical and horizontal.
Finally, closing just her right eye tight allows her to reduce the depth of
everything by at least one dimension.
The
pain in her lower back reveals itself to be a remote control, which once
extricated she uses to flip through the channels of the tv in the room’s far
corner.
Having
stuck her tongue into the ringpull opening to get at that last foaming descent
of beer, she launches the can from her fingers at a screaming cartoon cat whose
tail is catching fire in the too-loud colours erupting from the screen
ache1
before she became ache1: the fuck?
and
then remembering upon whose image she sits
ache1
before she became ache1: Said Elvis.
Changing
channel produces only the Millennium Falcon in its relentless and passive
descent toward the Death Star.
She
sniffs, yawns.
Next
to appear is a Buck Rogers episode, and she wonders if any of this is actually
on television at all; if she relinquished all control would the channels
continue to flip on without her and if so, is there some relevance to what
she’s being shown, is this indeed something from which she should be learning.
ache1
before she became ache1: HELP! HELP!
A
boy she only vaguely recognises as someone’s older brother from school, Ralph
perhaps, appears with his girlfriend, appears at first with a genuine concern,
but upon his understanding her to be drunk and nothing but, settles onto the
adjacent sofa to resume necking,
ache1
before she became ache1: Grrrrrrrrrrross
ignorant
of the fact that in no time at all, even before she can have another taste of
the coleslaw in the refrigerator, she herself will be losing her virginity to a
man old enough to be her father in the front seat of his car.
She
continues to stare at the couple as they continue their kissing and groping of
each other, inebriation smoothing the edges from off her habitual sense of
embarrassment. She raises both index fingers and works at the air in those
empty inches before her face.
Sensing
this in his peripheral vision, Ralph, his mouth still grimly affixed to the
girl’s, looks across at her. ache1 before she became ache1
silences him with a single finger placed carefully upon her lips before standing
and, wrapping the Elvis blanket around herself, waddles from the room, kicking
about the carpet as she goes the three crumpled and empty tins of Coors while
the one in her fist echoes wetly with its contents.
ache1
before she became ache1: Goodnight Ralph Perhaps.
Feeling
she might well benefit from some fresh air, she locates the front door and,
watched by several of the party already congregated at one window, somehow
successfully navigates the front path to the street where she sets herself down
upon the cold kerb.
cog:
Don’t let her leave with that.
cog
(snorting): Yeah ‘cause it’s not like we don’t have any more beers in.
cog:
Not the Coors, dick, the... Elvis! The Elvis!
cog:
Elvis has left the building! Elvis has left the building!
cog:
What do you care?
cog:
Maybe we should call her folks.
cog
(now sarcastic): What do you care?
cog:
Yeah but just...
cog:
She lives about two streets from here.
cog:
What could possibly go wrong?
cog:
Yeah, she could fucking crawl home from here.
cog:
She’ll know all about this tomorrow.
cog:
All and nothing.
Laughter.
cog:
“What the fuck happened to my knees?”
cog:
“And why am I covered in vomit?”
Laughter.
cog:
“Daddy, who the fuck is Elvis?”
Distracted
by a sudden loud laughter emanating from another room, they leave the window,
and too her to that fate as is currently turning into this very avenue.
Sitting
outside on the pavement, ache1 before she became ache1 finds
that beneath the street-lights’ hue she cannot quite put a colour to the car
that pulls up alongside her and stops; the smell of petrol fumes does not sit
easy upon her already fragile stomach. Over the idling engine she hears the
automated window’s electric descent, can almost discern the driver’s face in
the darkened interior, but has to ask him to repeat whatever it is he has said,
and then upon its hearing, stands up and, gently draping the humped and buckled
fabric face of Elvis across the open gate at her back, walks slowly around to
the passenger side of the vehicle, and clambers in.
In
the empty den, her abandoned E.T. doll still sits illuminated by the television
screen until someone eventually enters, and turns it off.
