Home is where nothing spins
I'm drunk - wasted. Sitting on the steps of the front porch, feeling like I might free fall from a skyscraper any moment. Someone hands me a chef hat. I take it and stare at the inside of the hat for a little less than a thousand years. "Booze money," someone explains. I pat the empty back pockets of my jeans and hold out the hat to the first phantom-like figure I see. Last thing I need is more booze. Resting my head on my knees I fight something - nausea, maybe. I want to cry because someone back inside the house was wearing my favorite t-shirt from my favorite downtown store. Something about baby-eating chickens. Or chicken-eating babies. Maybe it didn't have anything to do with babies but chickens were involved. That bastard spilled red wine on the shirt. I hate men with ponytails. A hand gives my shoulder a firm shake. I raise my head, pry my eyes open and frown. "Are you ok?" the person attached to the hand asks. I eye the person attached to the hand suspiciously. Is this someone I came in with? I tilt my head and narrow my eyes, but fail to think. Instead I shrug. He sits down. First he tries to kill me by shoving me over the edge, now he's sitting down, disturbing the equili...the equili...ah, fuck, I can't even pronounce it in my head. Oh, my head. I put it back down again. "Are you feeling alright?" my assassin asks again. Frustrated I look up, nod and stand abruptly. The porch spins. The girl who offered me a smoke spins. The guys who asked me about my favorite Woody Allen movie spin. The girl I drunkenly discussed minimalism in American short fiction with spins.The murderer attached to the hand stands up. He spins too. The guy who travelled a thousand miles to protest a death penalty spins. I wonder if I'm falling. I look at my feet. They're still there with my toes curled over the edge of the step. I wonder where my shoes are. Are they upstairs next to his bed again? Will he wake up tomorrow wondering how my shoes got there and where I went without my shoes? Does he even live here? I look at my feet. I look at everyone else's feet. None of the feet spin. The hand attached to the guy attached to the hand gently guides me to sit. I obey and it disappears. I smile sheepishly. Someone gives me a drink. I shake my head. He insists so I take it and start sipping. A shadow with a familiar voice scolds me for some reason, confiscates my drink and walks away. I ignore the irrationally angry shadows with familiar voices. I ignore the smoke. I smell the trees. The dirt. I close my eyes. My skin rubbing against damp wood. Whispers fading into the sound of the live band. Eyes open. The hostess is asking me something. She rattles off a string of words. My brain deciphers the code but doesn't share. I only hear myself say "yeah, don't worry. I'll be fine." She vanishes back into the smoke. Should I run barefoot if the house is on fire? Where did my shoes go? I pat my pockets. I find cash. I wonder where the extra booze went. I get up, bracing myself against the banisters. I climb the stairs and stand victoriously on the porch, hugging a pole. I look down. People don't look like ants from up here. I could even jump. Before I do, someone hands me my purse, puts my shoes on, takes my hand and walks me to a car. He tells me to stay put. I fall asleep staying put. After an eternity someone buckles me up and we go home. Nothing spins at home.
6/4/08 at 12:00 AM by negar