---

 

This writing was accepted for publication in the 108 page perfect-bound ISSN# / ISBN# issue/book “the New Deal” cc&d (v257) (the September 2015 issue) You can also order this 6"x9" issue as a paperback book:

Order this writing in the book Sunlight in the Sanctuary (the 2015 poetry, flash fiction, prose & artwork anthology)		get this poem collection 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback book:

Order this writing in the book from Smoke the cc&d July - Dec. 2015 collection book		get the 318 page July - Dec. 2015 cc&d magazine issue collection 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback book:

The Party

Margaret Karmazin & Janet Amalia Weinberg

    I don’t remember how I got here or why. Maybe I was under the influence, but of what, I don’t know. Whatever, I’m at the party. We’re all at the party.
    Everybody who’s anybody is here. So is everybody who’s nobody. The silky ones with smug, marble faces, the sloppy ones with screaming kids, the vain good-looking, the defiantly ugly – they’re all here.
    I’m in one of the larger rooms. There are rows and rows of banquet tables, lots of space to dance or mill around. Duke Ellington’s version of “Satin Doll” is playing. Including me, there are five at my table. There is Richard, my gay guy-friend, Lisa, my zany, wonderful best girlfriend, and two others I hardly know - Mrs. Rapolli, a plump old woman who always looks disturbed and Professor Winston Graves, an elegant, academic type with skin like milk chocolate.
    Richard examines his wine glass for smudges. He says he can’t relax unless everything is “up to snuff.” That means he can never relax. If one thing in this huge hall is “incorrect,” he’ll spot it. Lisa is the opposite. She doesn’t worry about what’s correct; she’s more interested in feeling good. That gets her into trouble sometimes but she sure has a lot of fun. I love them both.
    Right now I’m watching a statuesque blonde in a red leotard looking down on a middle-aged man doing push-ups. She is knockout gorgeous. It’s not fair. The man looks as strong as an asparagus and seems about to give up.
    “More!” she orders. “You don’t want ‘them’ coming for you, do you?!”
    He glances over his shoulder, then gives it a try. His face flushes and eyes bulge but he squeezes out three more push-ups.
    He’s not the only one working out. One group is doing yoga, another jogs in place and an old guy with a weathered, seaman’s face is doing hardcore crunches. They all seem grim and determined.
    I am looking at my own blubbery thighs, thinking I ought to work out too when someone takes my arm.
    I yelp. “What!”
    It’s only Lisa. “Look,” she whispers, nodding toward a nearby table.
    A child, a boy about nine, pale and thin with suffering eyes, is sitting with people who are probably his parents. An ethereal young woman in a white, gauzy dress has taken the boy’s hand. He cries out as if her touch hurts. The mother gasps and holds him close. The father envelops the mother and child in a tight embrace. They hang in balance, the smiling, ethereal woman, the crying boy and his frantic parents.
    Mrs. Rapolli leaves the table and wanders over to the exits. She does this periodically. She’ll be back.
    Suddenly, the boy relaxes, untangles himself from his parents and follows the woman in white out the door. The mother wails.
    A gloom descends on the party. People speak in hushed tones.
    Abruptly, a pale girl-woman with hollow eyes and a snake tattoo jumps onto a table. She shuts her kohl-rimmed eyes and sways, slowly unzipping her black leather dress. The band switches to a bump and grind. Her black bra flies through the air and lands on our table. Men yell, “Take it off, baby!” and leer like teen-aged boys. I’d hate it if men looked at me like that. Of course, they never do. And she isn’t even pretty.
    After a while, the party is back to normal. We order dinner. Richard treats us to a bottle of champagne. “Your best organic brut,” he tells the waiter. “And make sure it’s properly chilled.”
    Lisa empties her glass and holds it out for more. Richard frowns, but fills it.
    “What’s wrong?” I ask her.
    “It’s this scene,” she mutters. “It gives me the creeps.”
    Lisa is an artist. She has a thing about only using what she calls “everyday materials.” Like now, she is doing a portrait of the professor right on the tablecloth, painting with what’s handy – coffee, mustard, blood from her finger. Her work is beginning to get noticed.
        Mrs. Rapolli is back. She sips champagne and looks sad. “My husband walked out on me in this very room,” she begins. “We were dancing – Vince and me, we were big dancers. Right in the middle of “Deep Purple,” this woman in a white gown like for a wedding, taps his shoulder. Without so much as a word to me, he turns away and dances off with her. Not even a word.” A tear trickles down her wrinkled cheek. “Left me on the dance floor all alone.”
        “I got left too,” I tell her. “I had a date but the guy disappeared on me. Why are men like that?”
        Winston, the professor, shakes his head. He has a hunger in his eyes that I recognize. “Women are like that too,” he says softly.
        “For crying out loud!” Lisa’s fist slams the table. “This is a party! Do we have to go all depressing and morbid?” She laughs but her eyes scare me.
    “Let’s drink to happy relationships,” I say. I clink glasses with Winston and look him over. He’s working on a book, something about the way people in groups share delusions. He’s always tapping at his laptop but now he is looking at me. He is pretty hot in a tweedy, BMW kind of way.
    I flash him a smile. “Having fun?” I ask.
    He looks surprised. Was I too forward?
    All of a sudden, a crazed-looking Tarzan type runs past us. He’s got a white loincloth on and nothing else. A man and a woman who are in his way bolt from their chairs. The wild man is heading for an obese woman who gnaws a chicken leg and looks lost in food heaven. She stops, stares bugged-eyed at him, then snatches another mouthful. Without a word, he scoops her up as if she was made of air and carries her out a side door. The drumstick rolls to the floor.
    The couple looks relieved. The woman licks her fingers and dabs a spot on the man’s tie. He lights a cigarette.
    I turn back to Winston to pick up where we left off but he’s watching a man in a wheelchair near one of the exits. The man’s head is bobbing and his mouth is hanging open, but intelligence screams through his eyes. With spastic jerks, he injects a needle in his arm. Immediately, a grandmother-type in a white orderly’s uniform comes and whisks him away.
    I burst into tears. “That poor man.”
    Winston takes my hand. “He’s better off,” he says.
        I let him keep my hand. He asks me to dance.
    His warm breath caresses my ear as he sings along to “All We Are Is Dust In The Wind.” It feels good. I think he’s going to kiss me and pull me close. But he never does. Another dud – the story of my life.
    We return to the table. I keep going over it in my mind – why don’t men want me?
    I’d ask Mrs. Rapolli, but she’s off wandering again.
    I turn to Richard. “You’re a man. Do you think I’m attractive?”
    He gives my hand a courtly kiss. “You’re marvelous, darling.”
    I can’t tell if he means it or not. He and I need to talk, really talk. But just then a new commotion erupts. Why is there never time to get close to anyone?
    A man with a long, pinched face is standing on a chair, waving his arms. “You’re all sinners!” he shouts. “Sinners and fornicators! Come with me to a righteous party, a real celebration!”
    People line up to follow him. Not me. Once a guy like that led twenty-eight folks out of here and no one ever saw them again.
    The professor is talking to me. “I dreamed I was at this party but it was long ago and I was someone else.”
    “I had a dream just like that,” I say.
    “You did?” his voice lifts. “What do you think it means?”
    I am excited. “What if it’s true; what if we were here before?”
    “Spare me,” Lisa butts in. “Those are just dreams. This is it, kiddo. You better enjoy it!”
    I feel like punching her. Winston looks down at his laptop.
    Mrs. Rapolli is back. “What do you think?” I ask her. “Do you think we could have been here before?”
    “Who can know?” The old woman pats my hand but looks past me toward the doors. I follow her gaze.
    A huge Hindu looking man in billowing, white pants and a white turban is coming in. He glides through the crowd in our direction. Richard and Lisa reach for each other. Mrs. Rapolli gets up and leaves again. Winston is typing furiously. I feel more alone than ever.
    The Indian is after a man wearing mirrored glasses at a table behind us. The man springs from his chair, leaps behind a seated woman, presumably his wife, and shoves her, chair and all, between himself and the turbaned stranger. Her chair tips and she falls with a crash. The Indian sidesteps her body and silently takes her husband’s arm. As he is led away, the husband yells, “I love you!” to the woman, now bleeding on the floor.
    Everyone is shocked, though maybe we act more shocked than we really are.
    I lose track of the woman on the floor when our waiter comes with our orders. He serves my steak. My vision travels up from his strong hand to his muscled arm, his face, his eyes...
    He catches me and winks.
    I look away and slice into my steak. Bloody juice runs onto the plate.
    “I wouldn’t eat that if I were you,” Richard warns. “It’s full of toxins.”
    “So what?” I snap.
    “Toxins attract the White Ones,” he says.
    I’m surprised he says that. Most people don’t mention the ones in white.
    Winston looks up from his typing. “That’s an interesting theory,” he says.
    “A lot of us believe it’s a fact,” says Richard. “We have an organization.”
    “Indeed?” says the professor. “Might I attend a meeting?”
    Across the room, another white clad figure is leading a pregnant woman out the door. A frail old woman tugs the figure’s sleeve as if begging to go too. The figure leaves without giving her a glance.
    “I need a drink,” Lisa announces. Her portrait of Winston is finished. She hasn’t started anything new.
    The waiter brings a pitcher of gin and tonic. She pours one glass, then another. Richard disapproves but I join her. It helps me forget what is going on.
    I look around and don’t see Richard. Did I pass out?
    “Where’s Richard?” I ask Winston. I’m so drunk my words wobble.
    He shrugs, sips his coffee.
    I am alarmed. “What happened to Richard?” I shout at Mrs. Rapolli.
    “He went off with one of those people.”
    I shake her. “What people?!”
    Lisa gently pulls me back. Her eyes are swollen. “Take it easy,” she says. “There’s nothing we can do.”
    “Did Richard say anything when he left? Tell me everything.”
    “You know Richard,” she sighs. “When the woman came for him, he insisted she was making a mistake. ‘I’ve been so careful,’ he kept saying. She took him anyway. In the end he seemed to understand.”
    “Understand what?”
    “I wish I knew,” she whispers. Lisa has changed. She seems very subdued.
    I am tired of the party. The food is good but so what? And I’m bored with the music. It used to be a lot better. The constant talk, the endless tide of people coming and going. There’s no quiet, no peace. And it’s always the same; nothing lasts or seems as good as it did at first. It’s enough to wear a person out. I rest my head on the table and doze.
    I wake to see a teenage boy jump in front of that Indian man in the white turban. He gives the man the finger and darts back, laughing. Just when the kid must be thinking he got away with his prank, the man’s hand swoops down and seizes the boy by the ear. Whoosh! That kid is out the door.
    “Wow,” I say. “Incredible.”
    Lisa nods. “Poor kid.”
    I don’t tell her but I meant the man with the turban. The way he moves, so masterfully and sure. I never used to think about the ones in white, but lately I find them fascinating.
    I’m wishing something exciting would happen when a tall, silver-haired gentleman in a white tux saunters in. Like a beacon of power, he surveys the crowd and heads for our table. My heart pounds.
    He holds out his hand to Lisa. She takes it and he wraps himself around her like a lover. No one ever holds me like that. Lisa doesn’t look back.
    I miss her.
    The feeling that this entire party might be a dream comes and goes.
    Time passes. Mrs. Rapolli leaves for one of her wanderings and doesn’t return. I’ve got no one to talk to. Only the professor is left at the table, but all he does is type.
    I move closer to a door and watch who comes and goes. I have nothing better to do. Besides, maybe one of the ones in white will choose me.

Copyright of written pieces remain with the author, who has allowed it to be shown through Scars Publications and Design.Web site © Scars Publications and Design. All rights reserved. No material may be reprinted without express permission from the author.

Problems with this page? Then deal with it...