“Oh, gosh, aren’t those the best mornings? I love those, I need to start doing that more often.”
“Yeah, like, once a week, at least! And dude, that book was friggin’ craziness, I loved it! Gagool the old monkey witch lady, dude, she was freaky. And that part where the captain guy—”
“Captain Good—”
“Yeah, Captain Good, couldn’t put his pants back on because the natives were, like, worshiping his shiny white legs and thought he was a god, that was amazing. I busted a gut.”
“Right? I love H. Rider Haggard, he is just like total cracky fun …”
I watch them walk off, talking happily away.
“Do you think those girls are kissing one another because they’re crazy about each other,” Emily muses, gazing in the direction of the most debauched section of party so far (oh, far corner of the living room, I always sensed you were designed for licentiousness), “or because it makes those boys stare at them with so much interest?”
“Hard to say,” Dennis replies. “I hope it’s the first one.”
“Me too,” says Emily with a little sigh.
“Hey, Howbell!” Ahhhh. Rudy.
“Howbell,” I say as he approaches me. “That’s—”
“You see, like ‘cowbell.’ ‘Cause it rhymes. But then, but then! It works, ‘cause it also sounds girly as shit, and that works with the gay thing, because traditionally (although this is all stereotypical and stuff and probably pretty offensive, so don’t worry, I don’t mean it-mean it) gay dudes are pretty effeminate. So, see, that’s what I’m thinkin’.”
“I see,” I reply, reaching up to pat him on the shoulder. “Brilliantly conceived, buddy.”
“Where’s your boyfriend?” His voice is so loud. I bet you can hear that voice across oceans.
Like six people – a few I don’t know, a few I’ve seen around, one I went to school with from kindergarten to twelfth flippin’ grade – all look over at me.
“He’s having dinner with some other friends,” I say. The words come out easy. “I’m gonna go meet up with him later.”
“That’s cool,” Rudy says. “Tell him Happy New Year.”
And the conversation moves on to something else, and that’s that.
+
When I leave at quarter to twelve, I have yet to witness any bellybutton shots. There’s some devoted drinking, and a hearty game of beer pong going on in the kitchen, but all in all, it’s a near-respectable environment. The two girls Emily was so worried about stopped kissing and started talking, all smiley and close, until their male fans got bored and wandered off. My friends and I have mostly been hanging out around the Wii, where a truly epic round of Mario Party is going down. Dennis is losing spectacularly and with immense good cheer; it’s sort of great to see him suck so bad at something. Not in a spiteful, Jacob-have-I-loved way, just a ‘check you out, you actual human you’ way. Emily, who has never as much as touched a video game before in her life, is totally kicking ass and taking names, but in a way where she still exudes the vibe that she’s not quite sure what she’s doing and it’s all a happy accident. Amber has always been staunchly Wii-opposed, but we finally broke her down. Mitch is taking the opportunity to walk her through it. I’m pretty sure that there’s no legitimate reason for him to wrap his arms around her from behind in order to teach her how to use the controller, but Amber doesn’t seem to mind.
They all look really happy. There’s a lot of laughing and a lot of good-natured bitching, and I stop in the doorway to take one last look at them before I step outside into the cold night air. Such a good bunch of humans, I think.
By some grand miracle, I parked in the one spot where there aren’t like three cars behind me, so backing up and out of there is just fine. I am inclined to suspect that maybe, just maybe, sometimes the universe loves me. As I pull out onto the road, I crank the volume up. “Please Do Not Go” spills out of my speakers with so much force that the bass shakes the car.
Oh, yeah.
I sing along in my loudest, ugliest, pluckiest, most ardent Gordan Gano-style warble. It’s cathartic as hell. I find myself wondering what, exactly, it is that makes this song so great. It’s sort of a downer, subject matter wise: this guy loves this girl like crazy, even though she’s totally oblivious and she’s got a boyfriend. That ought to be, like, the lie-on-the-bed-stare-at-the-ceiling, “Fake Plastic Trees” type of woeful, but instead, it’s so friggin’ great. I can’t think of another song on earth that gets me in as good a mood as this one.
At a stoplight, I’m like a minute and thirty seconds into the song, the part where shit really starts gettin’ angsty. I’ve started bopping forward along in time to the music; the music, just so you know, demands it. I look over to my left, only to discover that there’s a couple in the car next to me, and they’re totally the audience to this little performance. They stare at me.
Caught. Dumbassery witnessed.
I don’t care so much, I realize. I wave at them, and I mouth “Happy New Year,” and I keep on drivin’.
+
I step into the store, humming to myself. The bell on the door sings out. Arthur’s waiting for me behind the counter, resting his elbows on it.
“You’re here,” he says, pleased, and stands up all the way.
“Here I am,” I agree, beginning to unzip my coat as I come over to him. “Where the ladies at?”
“None of that,” Arthur orders, reaching for my hands and stopping them. He slides my zipper back up the few inches that I’d pulled it down. His hands are a little more fumbly than usual. “Outside is our destination, as it just so happens.”
“You’re drunk,” I realize, a grin spreading across my face.
“I’ve had a bit to drink,” Arthur corrects me, all smiley. “That’s true. But drunk: very undignified. I don’t think so.”
He’s drunk. Arthur Kraft the Second is drunk. Best night ever, immediately, starting now.
Turns out the festivities are out on the roof, because Cora and Kristy would like to die of hypothermia for New Year’s. Arthur and I make our way up the rickety staircase to his office. (The ladder to the roof is in through there, which is news to me. I didn’t even know we could go out on the roof. Way to keep your grunts informed, Kraft.) He holds onto my arm, like another staircase ascent oh so long ago; there’s some stumbling, like another staircase ascent oh so long ago. This time, though, when we get to the top, he leans in and kisses my neck, his mouth warm and my skin still cold from outside.
“Wow,” I say, with (I like to think) the air of a levelheaded gentleman whose instinctive reaction is nothing along the lines of ‘mmmmm yeah’, “you’re slutty when you’re drunk.”
“I am not.” Kiss. “Drunk.” Kiss. “Just happy to see you.” Kiss.
My neck might, at this moment, be having an even better night than I am. “That’s what all the sluts say.”
“You’re insufferable. I don’t know why I suffer you.”
“Right back atcha, baby.”
We climb out onto the roof to find Kristy and Cora. Cora’s in her trusty lime green yak coat. Kristy’s wearing pink earmuffs, and is, I have no doubt, the only person in the world who is capable of making this cute instead of stupid. They’ve got a blanket spread out with an upside down picnic basket serving as a mini-table. It’s covered in bottles and cheap plastic champagne flutes. In one corner of the blanket, there’s an ancient tape deck. Neil Young’s crooning away.
“Howie!” Kristy exclaims. She bounces over with a glass of champagne and hands it to me. “Arthur leant me his watch so we can keep tabs on counting down to midnight!” She holds up the watch cheerfully as evidence.
“You accosted my watch,” Arthur corrects her. “My watch was stolen. I’m a victim of your thievery.”
Kristy doesn’t seem too troubled by his accusations. She just giggles. “Isn’t he cute when he’s drunk?”
“I’m not drunk.”
“He’s not drunk,” I agree.
&nbs
p; “Thank you,” he says, looking at me with surprise.
“No problem, bud. I’ve got your back.” I wait ‘til said back is turned, and then I mouth to Kristy, ‘HE’S SO DRUNK.’
She air fives me. Arthur, meanwhile, is in the process of turning over an old packing crate, thus transforming it into the tiniest of platforms. He climbs up onto it, which seems pretty bold considering his current state of drunk-being, but he does just fine.
“I would like to propose a toast,” he says – pretty grandly, current setting considered. He lifts his glass. “To you, and you, and you.”
“And you!” Kristy tells him, waving her glass in his direction.
“And me,” Arthur agrees, pleased by the idea. “I would just like to say that it has been – well, occasionally very exasperating working with you all. There’s been counter dancing. Prohibited, by the way.” Cora smirks proudly. “And Taylor Swift on the stereo, of which I will never be able to approve. Definitely prohibited.” Kristy doesn’t look nearly as ashamed as she should. “And a hatred of the apron that you have not disguised nearly as well as you thought you did, Howie.”
“Damn it,” I mutter, grinning.
“And it has never been easy business, selling people arts and crafts supplies. Which you wouldn’t expect, but there you have it. It is at times a vicious and brutal profession. One that can easily seem futile. And Holly’s is very big, and very nice, and has much more than we do, and sells said much more for much cheaper. And odds are, Artie Kraft’s Arts ‘N Crafts shall not prevail to see another rooftop New Year’s celebration. But we have now, and we have champagne—”
“And sparkling cider!” (Kristy.)
“—and sparkling cider for our responsible underage drinker, and that is very good also. And we have this uncommonly mellow musical selection on this very crappy tapedeck from Cora, and we have each other’s company, and some surprisingly pleasant memories, and the future. We’ve done what needed doing in order to make us wind up here. And all in all, I would deem that a very good year.”
He catches my eye at the end there, and I smile big at him as the three of us provide an enthusiastic round of applause and whooping for our fearless leader. Arthur bows, then stumbles his way off the box and back next to me.
“One minute to go!” Kristy announces, looking at the stolen watch.
“Good,” I say, out of habit more than anything. “It’s fucking freezing out here.”
“Oh, shut up, Jenkins,” Cora says. “In no way is this not the ballin’-est New Year’s you’ve ever had. We’re on the roof, motherfucker.”
“He doesn’t mean it,” Kristy says. “When he complains, it’s just code for how much he loooves us.”
“You must love us a lot,” Cora says affectionately, pinching my earlobe. It brings back fondish memories of her trying to bite it off. “You whiny little punk-ass.”
“You caught me,” I say, holding my hands up surrender-style. “I love you.”
Kristy and Cora both make cooing noises, Kristy’s sincere, Cora’s not so much. (Or at least, I don’t think they are. But after finding out her favorite book’s A Little Princess, who really knows?) Arthur’s standing a little ways behind them. There’s a smile playing on his mouth. He’s looking at me with really serene focus, like maybe in Arthur land, it’s a pretty sweet deal, this business of looking at me. I feel my mouth curving up as I look back at him.
Somehow, the cooing from the girls escalates real suddenly into a group hug. Kristy loops her arms around my shoulders. Cora’s hands wander a little bit lower, naughty vixen that she is, before I swat them back up.
“Check it out, man,” I say to Arthur over Kristy and Cora’s heads. “Two fine ladies, all over me. You should probably be a little worried right now.”
“I don’t know,” Arthur replies cheerfully. “I’d say I’m fairly confident in your regard for me.”
“Get over here, Krafty,” Cora calls, muffled, into my chest.
“I may be a little tipsy,” Arthur says. “I will concede to that. But I just don’t think I’m drunk enough to justify—”
Cora momentarily extracts herself from the cuddle orgy to grab Arthur’s arm and drag him over to us. He lands with an awkward ‘oof’ on the other side of Kristy and Cora, and we are transformed into a cozy, gangly bundle of humans.
“This is very weird,” he declares.
“I know,” Cora rhapsodizes. “It’s great, isn’t it?”
“You guys are the best friends,” Kristy sighs, her words dimmed a little bit by the fact that they’re said right into my shoulder. She snuggles happily against me. I bring a hand up to pat her on the head. Maybe my heart performs an action that is eerily akin to melting. Fortunately, I am way too manly to ever ‘fess up to that fact.
Just between you and me: sure, there’s melting. I’m so happy that I got this stupid job that I want to, I dunno, perform a merry tap dance. Scream it out to the whole sky.
“Oh!” Kristy pulls back abruptly. “It must be almost time!” She hurries over to grab Arthur’s watch off of the blanket. “Oh my gosh, you guys, ten seconds!”
“Ten seconds,” Arthur repeats under his breath, singing the words a little.
“Get ready, get ready!” Kristy squeaks.
“You do realize that we’re going to have to get snoggy with it,” Cora says to Kristy. “Since there is no way we’re prying those two off of each other.”
“Ladies, ladies,” I say, “there’s plenty of Howie to go around.”
“Not really,” Arthur replies. “I intend to keep you shamelessly to myself.”
Well, it’s not like I’m gonna argue with that.
“I’ve never kissed a girl before,” Kristy muses. “Katy Perry made it sound kind of fun!”
“Don’t worry,” Cora says, “I’ll be a gentleman.”
“You know,” I say, “this isn’t the first lady-kissing debacle I’ve borne witness to tonight. My life! So tawdry. So excellent.”
Arthur shakes his head.
There’s old music in the air, the kind of stuff my dad liked to listen to, and Kristy and Cora’s voices ringing out “five … four … three …” in sloppy unison; the sky is big and black and full of stars, waiting for fireworks, and the air is sharp and cold. Arthur is smiling, humming absently along to the song. He looks calm, and happy. “Two,” Kristy chants, and Cora takes a swig of champagne right from the bottle, and Kristy squeals and laughs loud. Fuck waiting, I decide. Vastly overrated, I decide. I put my cold hands on Arthur’s cold face and I kiss him. I catch him by surprise a little; he mumbles a messy version of my name and laughs before he settles into the kiss. “One!” Kristy and Cora yell together, and Arthur curls his fingers against the back of my neck, bringing me in close, and then it’s midnight. Just like that, everything’s new.
The End
(Which is to say: The Beginning)
Know Not Why: A Novel Page 37