The Animators(10)

“Someone’s losing a finger tonight,” I say.

“It’s not a party until body parts are separated.” She wrings her hands at me, Italian-grandma-style. “So sock it.” Hands me a bottle rocket. I give it back. Two of the interns have cigarettes tucked behind their ears in knowing imitation of Mel, who tends to have this effect on the young. She begs tribute. I see at least one bleach-blond cut on a guy who was brunet last week; a lesbo haircut on a man turns out to be unremarkable.

I point to a bottle rocket. “Sorta close to a residential area, are we not?”

“Not that close.”

“Ridgewood’s like three blocks that way.”

“So?”

The interns look to me expectantly. “So?”

“Look at you.” Mel grabs my face. “So concerned. Let’s give her a hand. Sharon Kisses, everyone.” She smooches me hard and smacky on the forehead, scampers away. The interns run after her.

I leave Mel on the roof with her followers and go downstairs to see if Beardsley has arrived. No dice. I meander, taking a deep schwag hit from a passing bong, retreating to the drinks table to fill a coffee mug from a box of merlot. The party has become its own entity; we have been forgotten, the room has filled with strangers, each younger and thinner and hipper than the one before. Shit. I’m already itching to escape.

Soon after Mel and I started working together, I realized my virtue was in my constancy. Mel is smarter than me, but I know more than she does. I have a knack for cleanliness, perfect portions. Chronology, arc, storyboarding—those are my areas of expertise. I’m the one who builds the narrative, keeps us on its track. But sometimes I get tired of my role in this partnership. Mel’s having all the fun—she has no issues with these horseshit hipster parties—while I’m the steady guy, taking care of the admin stuff, making the appointments. Cleaning up the messes. It is a central truth I’ve both known and feared for years: The heart-and-soul skill of it all is not something I do as well as Mel, who is still the best I’ve ever seen. All that goofing off and fucking around belies the focus within. In her own hidden way, Mel is the most serious person I know.

I worry it’s written all over my face, when people see us together in places like this. Mel’s the real artist. I’m tagging along. In weaker moments, I actually allow myself to feel envy. God knows I don’t want her life, her particular burdens, but her talent, what she makes look effortless. As if everyone could do this shit, and do it tomorrow.

I feel instant guilt. She’s your best friend, I tell myself. If you were wiped off the face of the earth tomorrow, she’s the only one you are sure would miss you.

Mel reappears downstairs with a blender full of her special Robitussin cocktail, an unspeakable combination of gin, cough syrup, fruit brandy, gummy bears, God knows what else. As many different things as she’s snorted, swallowed, injected, and inhaled, Mel still goes for the drugstore option first, her favorite kind of high, that smooth, out-of-body tussin lift—that feeling of cruising through the softened world. More people stumble in, holding out wine-spackled party cups. A few simply open their mouths and crane back while Mel pours and shuffles to the ridiculous vintage mix someone’s put on: throwbacks to the first Bush administration, grade school, the Running Man. She does the Axl Rose Snake Shimmy, the Ian Curtis Crazy Arms, the Wayward Pizza Boy. “Do you want a slice? Do you want a slice?”

Suddenly everyone’s dancing, frenzied. A bizarre, sweaty Prince impersonator vogues very, very hard in the midst of bystanders. Fart gets down on all fours and Mel rides him around the room, screeching, “Lookit me! I’m Roy Rogers!” Her iPhone flies out of her pocket and hits the floor with a glassy crack.

There’s an excited scramble when someone puts on Guns N’ Roses. Mel stops, puts her hands in the air for “November Rain.” Her jam and hers alone. Gives me the double-gun salute. You know, she’s saying. You. Know.

How do all parties get to this eventual point for me? I’ve spent one of the best nights of my life checking the door for someone who never came. I’m not supposed to be at the margins anymore. I am thirty-two years old. This shrinking feeling was supposed to have been absolved by now.

I put my cup down and slip away.

On the street corner, I fish out a cigarette. I think I’m alone when I see movement from my periphery.

A couple is entwined nearby, vigorously making out. They move their faces apart when they see me. The girl grapples with the guy’s belt loops, talking into his ear. Stops when he stops. Says, “Who?”

I look away politely. Dig around for my Bic.

The taller figure steps away, looking in my direction. When I glance up, I see the chin, the stubble outlined against the streetlight at the corner. It’s Beardsley.

The girl is small, raggedy-cute. She shakes her hair out of her face and looks over her shoulder, irritation scrunching her nose. Half my size, easily.

I take a deep breath and run back into the building.

I skip the industrial crank elevator, last service date 10.4.92, dart up the stairs. Back to the party, which has dialed down a few decibels; Danzig spits Robitussin into a corner, yells, “That shit is vile.” Indian John is throwing up out a window while Surly Cathie pats his back, rolling her eyes. Mel materializes from the crowd. Opens her arms as she comes toward me.

“I have to go,” I tell her.