Kearns (opening to a novel) DDH

"One of my most vivid memories, the one that really stuck, and still sticks in my mind to this day, were her ducks.  She had them littered all over the house, in every room and in every form, except, of course, the living, breathing form.  They were printed on dish towels and painted on wooden ornaments and carved into sculptures and pinned into the walls.  Most were old relics from dead generations that had passed them down the line and some were brand new, as if adding to the decorative ducks collection kept alive the spirit of those who ceased to exist.  It was an attempt to show that nature and civilization could coexist, peacefully and comfortably, so long as nature was as wild as a statue and as unpredictable as the rising of cornbread.  But she didn't do it intentionally.  No, I think it's just the way it was. 

"I remember going to the thrift store or a garage sell with her, and she'd always whisper to me right before we walked in, 'now go in there and find yourself a little treasure.' And I'd go and there'd be a bunch of miscellaneous junk that didn't mean anything to anyone, hence, the reason it's being sold for pennies.  But, I'd go in and find something small, maybe a book or a shitty baseball cap and I'd get it solely for her enjoyment and she'd be pushing a full cart just piled to the top with junk.  'See, now what did I tell ya?' she'd say, smiling as we loaded it into the trunk of her car.  'Anywhere you look, you can find yourself a little treasure, you just need to look hard,' she'd say again, almost talking to herself as she continued placing the used grocery bags in the trunk carefully. Every so often, I would see the bill of another duck sticking out of her treasure bags. 

            "I remember as a kid, the ducks frightened me and not in a holy-shit-look-at-the-size-of-that-spider type of frightened, but a real I'm-being-watched-by-two-eyeballs-in-the-bathroom-window type of frightened.  And, really, it wasn't the ones hanging two-dimensionally on the walls or the ones printed on the dish towels, but it was the three-dimensional ones with big, round, real eyes that bothered me.  There was one in particular that had it out for me.  It was a little utensil-holder carved out of wood and painted green and yellow.  It was kind of cartoonish, but not overly.  I think my aunt made it when she was a kid, at least that's what they said.  Whoever made it or whether it was the light from the garage or the angle it was sitting at on the counter, its eyes were terrifying.  I remember getting a drink of water at night, tip-toeing through the creaky house, and as soon as I turned into the kitchen, every single time, those eyes were beaming bright at me.  They blinked and flashed and followed me just like a person's.  The blood in my heart would pound so hard that it felt like it would pop through my neck.  I would run to grandma's bed and bury my sobbing head in her shoulder and she would whisper stories and say, 'shhh, you cut that out now,' and then she would rub my back until I drifted to sleep.  'It's just a damn duck,' she'd say and I'd laugh because she cursed and it made me feel better to laugh.  She'd tell stories to the family about my night terrors and everyone would laugh and make jokes, but they weren't being mean.  They thought it was cute.

            "Miraculously, though, one night, I went to get a drink of water and I saw the eyes and I smiled.  I wasn't scared anymore.  Somewhere in between, I think I grew up.  I thought of how stupid I was to be so scared before and, then, after recalling those times of pure fear and pulsating adrenaline, I stopped making fun of myself because it was scary.  But, now, a grown man, at least in my mind at that time, I stared at all of the ducks proud and strong.  I looked in all of their dead eyes and had an epiphany.  Yes, a real life epiphany.  I noticed how all of the ducks encapsulated that way of life, that rural northern way of life.  I noticed how all of the ducks were a symbol of stagnancy and apathy.  I noticed how, like all of the ducks, my family was also stuck in a state of contentedness, pure, stagnant, ambitionless contentedness.  They had never done anything, been anywhere, made any fleeting attempt at bettering themselves, and really didn't care two shits one way or the other.  It was sad and I think I cried when I first figured it out.  I sobbed like a child.  I loved them, but I didn't share their contentedness.  There were things I aspired to do and places I dreamed of going and people I wanted to meet.  I wanted more, or, simply, I just wanted.  I made a pact with myself that I would never become one of those ducks.  No matter how hard it would be to say goodbye to grandma, it was something that I had to do.  I loved grandma, but for some reason, maybe the movies or television or radio, I thought I was too good to be pinned on her wall.  So, like a duck, I flew south.  I soared to the warmer, more fruitful Los Angeles climate, went to school, and, unlike a duck, I never migrated back again."

Frank closed the journal and threw it back on his father's writing desk.  He knew the story.  It made for a pretty epic tale, but in all reality, it was an exaggerated account of how his father bailed on his family and deprived Frank of ever having one.  You know, that ole story. 

            Frank had been at the estate for two days now and had spent practically the entire time locked in his father's study avoiding the commotion of florists, guests, and the other funeral preparations that were taking place downstairs.  The body was being flown into Los Angeles from Paris where Harold had had a violent heart attack at a café.  You might think that since he was in Paris, he was shooting some black and white coffee-and-cigarettes postmodern masterpiece, but, he was just getting a coffee.  It was eight in the morning and, apparently, he was the only person at the café, writing some magnificent script, when suddenly, he grasped his left arm, dropped his magical pen, and fell, boom bam, dead on the pavement.  That was the story his sleazy, thin-armed agent, Gerald, told.  Oh, right, and the clouds parted and one transcendent beam of light illuminated the corpse like a spotlight on a Globe-Theatre stage effectively sending him off into eternity righteously and ever so fittingly. 

            The study was boring and a complete let down to Frank, who had never been allowed in before.  The view over the orchard was nice, but the writing desk was polished and the curtains were perfectly furled over the window and the record player had been dusted.  The wooden floors were waxed and the ash tray had been polished and all of his books were neatly lined in their places.  It was like the Ernest Hemingway home in Oak Park that Frank had visited with friends one weekend on a cross-country road trip through Chicago.  The feelings of excitement were brewing, for Hemingway was the greatest American author, and what a transport in time it would be, thought Frank, to breathe the same air Ernest breathed in the same room where he practically wrote the entire canon for twenty-first century high school English classes and then how that excitement turned into a slender smile when he was told that the entire house had been subleased for over fifty years and everything had been refurbished and then how that slender smile turned into a scowl when he was told that Ernest had lived there up until age six. 

            The records weren't any good either.  His father, of course, had the high-brow Chopins and Beethovens and Mozarts all neatly stacked in a glass cabinet and that was fine, even though a bit mainstream.  But, beneath the writing desk, there was Eddie Money's entire collection and The Police and U2's Joshua Tree amongst other shitty albums stacked haphazardly and worn so thin the cardboard casings felt like soft denim.  Even the chair had been wiped with leather cleaner.  Martha, in a fit of depression-slash-maniacal-rage post her long lord's passing, had almost scrubbed all of the grease from the arm rests, but a few black dots of filth survived the cleansing.  The only thing that remained of his father, save the acrid-smelling flesh flying 30,000 feet above the Atlantic, were his journals and papers, which had been filed chronologically in his desk and Frank was surprised to find them, thinking Martha would've surely torched them to save the space. 

            His family, well, his father's family, the Kearns', lived in Newberry, Michigan in the You-Pee.  They were a middle-lower class agrarian family who talked about the weather and the price of gas a lot.  His father sometimes told him stories of his life there and how he would go hunting and how, with chains, they would hoist the dead carcasses of whitetails in the garage and skin them.  After strategically slicing the matted fur from the still steaming meat and throwing it in the field, blood would pool over the drain in the garage, as clumps of hair and tendons clogged its rectangular slats.  And, smiling widely, he said his father would pick the drain clean with his bare hands tossing the dripping remnants into a bucket and then spray the garage clean with a water hose, always systematically rolling it back into a perfect coil on the wall.  Then, for hours, like a surgeon, he would dissect the maroon and white body, picking clean the best parts of meat and sawing through bone, flecks flying, in order to get to other more desirable parts.  Through the loins and thighs, the blade smoothly ran unabated, silently slicing large marbled slabs of meat, which were washed and wrapped by his mother.  Through the thicker, more difficult cuts, the blade carved loudly through snapping ligaments, popping every few inches until finally the shoulder would fall to the concrete, thumping like a medicine ball.  From there, he would continue shaving and sculpting until the tender meat revealed itself and his mother again would wash and wrap the cool flesh with brown freezer paper.  The way he told the story, with such specificity and without one flinch made Frank believe that he couldn't have minded it too much. 

Harold just had a way with telling stories. He would start talking generally about a subject and then something would pop in his mind and you could tell, as he stared at the wall behind whomever he was talking to, he was seeing it all come back.  He was living the moment again and after a few seconds, he would continue drawing the landscape and then filling it with subtle details and then larger details and then the smallest of details until the scene began to live again and he would keep talking and talking, never stopping for questions.  He just spewed like a fountain and you had to try to keep up, because, if you did, you could almost relive the experience with him.  He had a way of adding these details to stories, even if just one image or one word and they stuck to the inside of your skull like an iron shaving to a magnet and as he kept going and going more and more iron shavings accumulated and they painted the picture, as clear as water and as honest as wine and after just a few minutes, he had you, and you became intoxicated by his voice and craved more and he would give you just enough to be able to see and then he would just stop, leaving you pining for answers to questions that loomed and you could beg as much as you wanted, but he was done.  The vision was over. 

Frank looked over the lightly swaying apple trees and thought of the old family.

            Apparently, in the You-Pee, it's quite common for young boys to shoot doves off the power lines with air guns.  Not only is it target practice in preparation for that first, perfectly placed, single shot into the triangular kill zone located right behind the shoulder blade of a beautiful buck, but the breast meat of a dove is a delicacy, his father said, in those parts.  Sautéed with garlic and onion and served with cheddar-scalloped potatoes, dove was the best meal a man could eat, aside from venison.  One day, his father was shooting at the doves in the yellow light of evening when he saw one of the little black shadows fall from the thin power line toward the ground.  He had clipped its wing and the little bird waddled off, cowering to its left.  It tried to fly, flailing its right wing feverishly while the left moved in slow concentric circles.  He shot it again and it kept walking.  And then, pump-pump-pump on the air gun, and another shot, this time to the right wing.  Dropping face first, the little grey bird with round yellow eyes crawled on the gravely road with its head buried in the dirt, still frantically kicking its skinny legs. Its short mouth opened and closed in the sandy dirt, coughing and crying like a baby waiting for the worm. And he said he cried and pump-pump-pump, another shot, and he cried louder and louder, and pump-pump-pump, another shot each pellet embedding itself into oozing red holes in a speckled pattern on its back.  He said that his father finally came bolting across the lawn in navy blue sweat shorts and yanked the dove off the ground by its neck and jiggled it like a mustard bottle until he finally freed it to death.  Still standing with the bloody bird hanging from the noose of his fingers, its head resting over his thumb, his father scowled at him silently, which he said chilled him to the bone, not only because he couldn't successfully kill the defenseless bird at point blank range, but also because, like a little pansy, he wept uncontrollably at the torture he had inflicted. 

He was only nine years old.  Every dove he had shot before had been a clean kill, falling dead to the gravel after one shot and from there he would excitedly run to the garage and show his dad who would then rip the breast meat out and pat him on the head, telling him he had a real future.  This time, however, he said that his father refused to do the "dirty work" for him.  He had to man up and skin the bird himself.  Still crying, he asked his dad where to start slicing on the mangled bird.  His father shook his head and told him that there was no need for knives on such a small kill.  He pointed to the seed pouch, which bubbles right below the neck and told him to puncture it and manually remove the breast plate.  With tremors in his hands, he shakily massaged the seed pouch trying to find the easiest way in.  The air inside squirmed around like a lightly inflated balloon full of corn.  "Pop it," his father said, still staring.  After pressing as hard as he could, the pouch burst open and seeds fell to the ground.  Tears streamed down his red cheeks as he looked back at his father, who motioned like he was cracking open a beer.  He grasped the breast plate and pulled, snapping the left clavicle, exposing the air cavity, which was purple and veiny.  Pulling harder, the rest of the breast plate finally cracked free and the bloody breast-less body hung toward the ground.  Removing the ligaments from the rib cage, all that remained were two medium-sized maroon bulbs of meat.  His father took the meat and stomped off toward the house.  Looking at the messy bird one last time, he chucked it into the corn field with his sticky hands. He said it was the last thing he ever shot. 

Interestingly enough, thirteen years after being told this story, Frank read almost exactly the same story by John Updike in one of his upper level English classes at NYU.

The window in the study had a nice view, as I said before.  It was a perfect mix of orange sky, maroon-green orchard, and violet valleys.  The driveway, which weaved through the apple trees, had hundreds of Victorian-styled night lamps lined on both sides, making the road look like the neon exoskeleton of an electric eel two miles beneath the ocean's surface, slithering through slimy stones black with briny bristles. 

            The funeral was scheduled to take place the following day, but a severe lightning storm in Paris had delayed all flights an extra night.  With many of the guests already in Malibu, Martha decided to have a pre-funeral gathering at the estate.  It was a way to let everyone give their condolences without wasting a Saturday afternoon at the cemetary.  Frank watched as little orbs of light lit up the spine of the eel like pulsating neurons traveling from the butt to the brain.  Reaching the circular turnabout drive, the lights would vanish, and then would reappear at the end of the drive when the next synapses were fired.  About half an hour passed and there were a considerable amount of cars parked all about the grounds.  The turnabout became so cluttered that cars just started pulling to the side of the driveway and when the walk from the cars to the house became decently lengthy, Martha sent one of the caterers in a golf cart to begin shuttling the guests.  God forbid they had to walk. 

They began filing into the front foyer and all were greeted with a hug from Martha and a glass of wine from some bored sommeliers dressed in long starched frock coats.  Their pale faces were droopy and cleanly shaven with light purple bags under their eyes, as if the wine that poured from their white gloves somehow found its way into their veins and kept them in a state of solemn drunkenness.  The Cooper's had been there since early afternoon and Gerald waltzed around the marble floors, wine glass in hand, speaking to each guest as they arrived.  Frank watched from the top of the stairwell as Gerald glided from group to group, always producing a reserved chuckle, offering a light hug and then forcibly contorting his face into a grimace.  He tried ever so hard not to smile.  Mrs. Cooper followed him for a while and then slowly floated to the corner of the room, next to one of the sommeliers, silently gazing at the arrangements of flowers that adorned a large table.  No matter how fast she drank, her glass never seemed to empty.

Every single guest wore their best black attire and they splotched the glistening floor in groups.  Vibrantly colored plants provided a nice border of color and the light from a crystal chandelier, hanging next to Frank, produced hexagonally warped rays, making the view look like an impressionistic painting seen through a large, yellow gem.  In the middle of the room sat an ivory fleur-de-lis, which Gerald had cleverly bought for the event.  Hanging loosely from the curved half-arches, which splayed in opposite directions, were red streamers, tied neatly in bows around the thick ivory.  The scene was beautiful.  Everyone toed delicately on the floors and talked lowly so as not to make too much sound and, surprisingly, they succeeded.  It sounded like a cathedral, right before mass, with the same gentle movements and soft conversations that echo lightly toward the atrium, creating a voiceless hum.  Adding to the atmosphere was the slow, steady line that continued to grow out the front door, spilling into the drive.  They walked slowly and deliberately single-file, again resembling a communion line during midnight mass on Christmas Eve.  The only difference, aside from the cross-less altar, was the absence of the body of Christ, but I suppose they made up for that by the endless flow of his blood and the repeated communion offerings of it. 

Frank felt content to watch from above.  He dreaded the dull conversations and fake smiles and fake tears.  He dreaded watching everyone try to sympathize.  He barely knew seventy-five percent of the people that edged in the door and the other twenty-five percent were completely foreign.  What could they say to him?  "I'm sorry about your dad." No. "I'm sorry about your father."  And that's it.  That's all they could say.  They didn't know anything about him, or his father.  All they knew was a film director, whom they'd probably worked with at some point or another had died and they needed to save face by adhering to the instructions printed on the beautiful cardstock invitations.  Gerald had booked it like a concert; inviting anyone he knew, and, quietly blowing himself for locking down some of the really big names.  In a way, it was a blessing that Paris was flooded because the otherwise morose and sentimental service, which had been scheduled to occur, had now turned into a quasi party under the cloak of remorse.  Most of the guests probably thought that if they could just get through an hour of drinking quietly and reverentially, there would be the chance that a disco ball would drop from the ceiling and music would rattle the palace to the ground in a rave. Or, they would just leave. That was surely more appealing than having to force out fresh water tears and ruin those perfectly lined eyes. And boy, those tears!  It would be hard to keep them flowing all afternoon once they squeezed the last drop of Visine in their well-hydrated sockets.  They'd surely dry up.  So, all in all, this was for the best.

Bernie MacDonald and his ugly wife were talking in front of the fleur-de-lis.  Bernie had been lighting director for one of his father's first films, Fire Friendly, and had since gone on to direct a plethora of grungy porno films in an abandoned warehouse outside of Fontana.  His face was scrunched and wrinkled, with a large crease going across his forehead, which looked like a vagina, almost like he had stared at vagina so much during the course of his life that his face began to morph into one.  His wart-faced wife had thick, cakey make-up covering her face and it was so terribly executed and so terribly obvious that it looked like she had another face (with copious amounts of blue eye shadow) super glued over her own.  Behind them, stood the tall, shadowy Dartmouth Broussard, who had starred in two of his father's films in the early nineties.  He had that kind of face where when you first saw him, you would swear he was intelligent, but after he opened his mouth with incomplete sentences and long, clueless pauses, you just smiled to make him feel comfortable.  His once chiseled appearance had eroded into a skeletal coat-rack draped with pale skin and a red nose, probably from snorting too much blow.  Once an English schoolboy, Dartmouth had successfully become an American man with a martini.  Behind him were a bunch of tan men without faces.  Well, they had faces, but they were turned away.  In the corner, one of the sommeliers poured Mrs. Cooper another drink.  She wobbled and smiled, catching herself on the table.  Further down the wall about ten or fifteen feet, Gerald was pointing at a painting on the wall and talking with Alexa Arnold, a young actress whom Gerald had met at a West Hollywood café and occasionally fucked.  She was at least 25 years his junior and, aside from her wholesome Detroit face, she wasn't much of an actress.  Gerald had his arm wrapped tightly around her waist and she listened intently, nodding every few seconds.  She had on heels with little black straps wrapped around her ankles and they were perfectly tanned, toenails glittering in the light

Below Frank, shakily standing at the side of the fleur-de-lis was a shaggy, blonde-headed guy in a white tuxedo.  He was trying to hold a conversation with a couple.  After flailing his arms about wildly in the midst of the conversation and spilling wine on himself, their fleeting smiles were followed by a fleeting departure and snickering.  The room seemed to rotate around him like planets to the sun with no one daring to enter his peripheral and be forced into contact.  The back of his tux was so white that when he wobbled just right in the beaming lights, the outline of his body was lost within the pure ivory of the fleur.  Frank walked halfway down the stairs to try and see the guy's face.  And after about three steps, Gerald noticed him and started slithering through the crowd, leaving the cute Alexa with a kiss on the cheek. The aberration in white had a large crimson stain on the front of his tux, but he had his head burrowed down, thumbing cautiously on his cell phone.  Frank looked back at the crowd, trying to spot Gerald who held his wine glass high in the air as he slid effortlessly through the crowd.  Rethinking his move, Frank turned to go back upstairs.

"Frankie, my boy," Gerald said smiling.  "Where you running off to?"  He grinned with wine-stained teeth and his moustache was wet in the corners.  "Don't you think it's time you came down and mingled with our guests?"

Frank rubbed his eyes and yawned.  Then smiling lightly, he took another couple steps down.  Gerald met him halfway up and wrapped his arm around his shoulder, squeezing tight. Then, sliding the golden wedding band off of his finger, he clanged the crystal glass in his left hand.  He clanged it so hard on the third ring, Frank was sure it would shatter on the steps. 

"Atten-" Gerald cleared his throat.  "Attention everyone."  The crowd died down to a mumble and then after a few more seconds went completely silent.  "I'm, well, we're so glad you guys could make it out here tonight and for such an, an honorable reason."  Gerald cleared his throat again.  "It's, it's just such a shame that, that Harold couldn't see this right now.  He would've been so proud to be so loved by so many and so honored.  It's, it's a thing of beauty."  Gerald wrapped his bony arm around Frank's neck and squeezed tight.  He turned toward Frank and blew dusty wine breath into his nostrils.  "This boy has been going through it worse than any could imagine and this gathering is as much for his closure as it is our own and, and even more so for him." Frank noticed the aberration in white staring glossy-eyed at the stairwell.  It was his closest childhood friend, James Madison.  He smiled at Frank and rocked back and forth, smoothly keeping his balance.  "But, instead of mourning and crying and trying to forget that honorable, that honorable man tonight, we should let our hair down and really live this night to the fullest for him."  Frank looked at Gerald.  "I mean, really, it's what Harry would've wanted.  He wouldn't want us crying for him.  He wants us to remember those great times, those great times that we all have shared with him.  So, like honorable friends and close compatriots, let's relive those great times tonight and send Harry off happily because, because the past is unrepairable, or, unamendable."  Gerald stopped and took another sip.  "So, raise your glasses everyone," he motioned around the room, "and let's toast to a great life and a great son," he paused and looked back at Frank, "to Frankie."  The room clanged their glasses, took a deep swig, and returned to talking.  Gerald squeezed Frank's neck tight again and then mumbled something inaudibly.  He released his grip and turned, tripping down the first stair.  He pointed up at Frank, smiling, and continued his descent down the rest of the stairs, finally hitting the bottom. 

It was probably the worst toast that Frank had ever heard and he was still in a bit of shock at what Gerald had said.  But, aside from his complete disregard for the actual reason the gathering was formed, Gerald had managed to energize the crowd.  The volume had definitely risen and smiles were popping up on more and more faces.  Finally released from their moral obligation to be sad, even the sommeliers brightened up a bit, bending their skinny lips just a tad in the corners.  People were laughing and telling stories and the bar-backs kept running back and forth with boxes of wine.  A crowd of people had gathered around the fleur-de-lis and they leaned on it like the side of a building.  Martha, who had been absent most of the night running errands around the kitchen and managing the caterers like a major league baseball team, reappeared more flustered than ever, scowling over the guests in disgust for their disrespect. 

"Frank Kearns, K-E-A-R-N-S.  How the hell are you?" asked James.  He took a long drink of red wine and rose his glass.

"Oh, absolutely fabulous.  Looking pretty sharp tonight, eh?"  Frank pointed at the stain on his vest.

"I went with white because, unlike what all these assholes think, white should be the standard at funerals.  Think about it, black stands for the bad and the evil.  So, why would we wear that at a funeral?  Are we trying to send the dead to hell?  I mean, it's your dad, but I was just saying.  But, white is for the pure.  You know, the good. So, it makes sense to wear it for the dead, right?"

Frank couldn't help, but laugh at his drunken friend.  He walked down the stairs and poked at the stain on his chest.

"Oh right," James chuckled. "Had a little spill.  This wine's goin' down like water."  His eyes were bloodshot and scrunched as he laughed.  "I've missed you my brother.  How're you holding up through this mess?"

"I'm doing fine.  Glad to be home for summer, but I guess you never really want to come back on these terms."

"Totally.  It's deep shit.  Real deep."  James motioned at a sommelier for another pour.  "What're you studying? Film? Like your pops?"

"I'm studying geography, actually.  Never got into film.  Kind of despise it in a way."

"Me too, man.  Growing up out here can do that to you.  That's why I'm studying the pure art of literature.  Not that watered down, made-for-TV-movie bullshit, but the real art.  The way it's supposed to be."  The sommelier poured his glass almost full and smiled as he walked away.

"Glad you're liking it.  Seattle, right?"

 James nodded in the midst of a long drink.  "Beautiful place, man.  Gorgeous view over the sound.  Pretty ladies, too.  But the real kind.  You know, the pure kind.  Not like these valley girls out here.  How's New York?  D'you find any girls out there?"

"Sure, there are girls everywhere.  New York's fine.  It's cramped and loud, but fine.  Are you back home for the summer?"

"Yep, back home.  I've been talking with Blair Cooper, C-O-O-P-E-R.  'Member her?"

"Of course."  She was Gerald's only child and the same age as Frank.  They grew up together before their fathers had a falling out, but we'll get to that at some other point.

"Yeah, with your dad and all," James said shaking his head.  "I'm really sorry man, I'm not being privy to the situation."

"Privy?"

"You know what I mean." James paused and scanned the crowd behind him.  "Anyway, I've been talkin' with her and we've gone out a couple times.  First rate girl, out here."

"That's cool, is she here?"

"I think."  James moved close to Frank and whispered in his ear.  "I'm tellin' you, she got fuckin' hot man.  Real hot."

"Oh yeah?"

"Oh yeah," James said.  He scanned the room again, looking for her, but there were people cluttered everywhere.  Most of the sport jackets had been shed and a few people had even unbuttoned the first two buttons of their shirts.  James swayed and sipped on his glass.  Even with the shaggy hair and stubble on his chin, Frank could see that goofy little kid he grew up with.  "You dating anyone out in NYC?"

"Nah, I'm more focused on school."  Frank starting cracking his knuckles and bit his lip.  He knew it was bullshit.  He cared about school, but it's not like he would turn down a good fuck for the geography of Russia.  Sure, Muscovites retreating into frozen wheat fields, burning them as they fled to starve their enemies was interesting, but if some brown-legged girl had decided to barge into his dorm room and wrap those golden hips around his waist, I'm sure the Muscovites could have waited another night.

"Right," James said snapping his finger.  He continued scanning the crowd and smiling at everyone.  He looked like a child who had spilled grape juice on his bib. "You know, I'm writing a novel.  It's pretty epic shit."

"Woah, that's awesome.  What's it about?"

James thought long and hard for about twenty seconds.  "It's really about everything."

"Everything?  What does that mean?"

"It encompasses so many different subjects and philosophies and other things that I think it tries to sum up everything.  I think you'll really like it."

"Sounds great," Frank said hesitantly.  "So, you're getting published?"

"I'm halfway through, right now, but I did send off the first few chapters to some presses around Seattle and a couple down here in LA.  I've gotten some interest.  As long as I keep my nose to the sandstone then I think I'll be a published writer."  James looked straight into Frank's eyes as honest as a cat.

"That's really good to hear.  Maybe I could take a read-through?"

"Hell yeah.  I'll send you a copy.  Maybe you could help me edit it," James laughed.  He walked a few feet away, swaying and peeking behind some bodies.  Frank could see his eyes rolling around his head, as he caught himself from falling three or four times.  Blair was still no where to be seen.  He came back close to Frank and whispered, "I think I love this girl, man. I think she's the one, dude."  He stumbled back to the stair case and rested his head on the arm.  Some of the people standing around began watching him and laughing at how drunk he was.  He tossed his body around and controlled his balance as if he was walking on the surface of the moon. 

"What're you talking about?"

"Blair Cooper! C-O-P-P-R-E.  Didn't I tell you man, we're going steady."  James rolled his eyes and shifted all of his weight onto the arm of the staircase.  He was crashing fast like the last glass of wine he just gulped down had sent his body into shutdown mode.  One minute, you're there and then the next minute, you're stupid. 

"Oh, that's right.   Why don't you sit down a minute and tell me about her."

"No, man, I'm good."  He sat down on the stairs and buried his face in his hands.  "I'm good," he said lightly again. 

"Is he okay?" asked a sommelier whose bloodshot eyes looked like road maps.

"Oh yeah, he'll be fine.  He really loved my dad," Frank said. 

"It's quite a shame.  More wine?" the sommelier showed Frank the bottle and poured another drink. 

Frank sat down on the steps next to James.  Everyone was cherry-faced.  They laughed and smiled in complete bliss.  Bernie MacDonald's vagina face was so red he looked inflamed and his wife's wine glass had cream colored smudges around one-third of its rim.  Dartmouth's eyes were wide and attentive.  The rest of his face had turned the color of his nose and he had some tiny blonde-headed girl locked in a frantic conversation.  James ran his hands through his hair and rubbed his eyes, trying hard to break his confusion. 

"So, tell me about Blair."

James yawned and blinked hard.  "I don’t know.  I went out with her one time the night I flew in from Seattle."

"I thought you guys were talking."
            "I wish.  I've been trying to call her the past week with no response.  I facebooked her, texted, and nothing man.  She's fuckin' with me."

"Who knows, maybe she's busy?"

"No way.  Too busy to text back and say she's busy?  She's fuckin' with me and I don't like being fucked with.  I thought she'd be here tonight." James kept his head down as he talked with his eyes closed.

"I don't understand why you care.  Don't you have girls back in Seattle?  I mean who the hell is she?"

"I don't know, man.  I'm in love."

"You're full of shit," Frank said.  He patted James on the back.  "You'll be back in school this fall tearing it up again and all will be well.  You won't even think about this."

"I'm a writer, Frank!  I think about everything all the time!"  James raised his head and stared at Frank.  "Don't you know what kind of pressure it is to be thinking of everything all the time?  Of course not, you're out there, studying, whatever it is, fuckin' geology in New York and I'm up there always thinking."

"You're right, man.  I shouldn't have said that."

"It's cool.  You just don't understand.  Let's get another drink." 

They both got up and stumbled through the crowd.  The hot and sweaty bodies stunk like five-hour-old perfume mixed with salty water, all steamed at one-hundred-fifty degrees.  There had been a point, in the midst of his conversation with James, when Frank heard the slow taps of Chopin's nocturne in B-Flat abruptly fade out, replaced simultaneously by a pulsating thud of low bass that seemed to crescendo into a poppy, over-synthesized and unsympathetic mess and the bodies swayed to it moving forward and backward, rock-step, forward and backward, rock-step.

James led the way straight to Mrs. Cooper who still stood alone in the corner, with her head toward the floor. 

"My lord, if it isn't Mrs. Cooper!" James said emphatically.  He seemed to tap into his reserve tank of appropriateness, making his drunkenness undetectable.

"Good evening," she squinted, "James.  How are you doing this evening?"

"Just tryin' to keep the ole chap's spirits aroused," he said, flicking his head back toward Frank.

"Oh Frankie," she cried.

"Don't mind him, he's fine," James said, stepping in between the two.  "So, would you happen to know where Blair is?"

"Well," she paused, trying to look into Frank's eyes and then readjusting them back to James.  "You know, I haven't seen her since we walked in."

"That was fucking three hours ago," James mouthed to Frank with head turned.  "So, you haven't seen her in three hours, Mrs. Cooper?"

"I don’t believe I have.  Of course, I haven't been observing much in the last three hours," she said.  The sommelier beside her filled her glass as she stared at the roses on the table next to her.  And kindly, the sommelier poured James and Frank's glasses full.  "I think it's an absolute disgrace what they're doing here tonight."

"What's doing what, now?" James said.  He smiled and lifted the glass to his mouth.

"These scumbags.  These faceless scumbags who didn't know Harold from the paper they wipe their asses with," Mrs. Cooper said.  She brought her black handkerchief up to her eyes and dabbed the corners.  "Excuse my language."

Frank watched her intently and his face began getting warmer.

"Come on," James said to Frank.  He started off toward the front door shuffling through a crowd of tan old men.  They walked out onto the smoky front porch and commented on the cool ocean air blowing in.  "Man is she a mess, or what?"  James said, pulling up a cigarette.

"She's the only one who cares.  Well, Martha too."

"Martha's worried about the money," James said coolly.

"Worried about what?"

"You know, her check, how she's goin' to make it."

"I don’t think that's her concern right now," Frank said.  He was getting agitated.  "She's lived here ever since I can remember and now she's grieving because the one constant in her life is gone.  It wasn't a job for her, you know.  It was her life."