04⎜The Barbecue

           “You have got to be kidding me.”

           “Is this actually the place?”

           “Welcome to Douchebag Central!”

           “Why are we here, babe?”

           “Because both of our roommates wanted us to be here, loser.”

           “Shouldn’t we probably go in?” I interrupted the couple’s immediate response to the vast building that stood before us.

           It was the kind of structure that had large pillars, was painted white, and held some resemblance on the outside to that of the White House, while on the inside it was undeniably filled with booze and boys. The overall exterior of it wasn’t what scared me, for the regal-esc caused me an odd sense of calm, as if order and properness were exhibited within. What did instill some amount of anxiety in me, however, were the vibrations already pumping from the “house” to where I was standing. The second I walked inside, music would be pounding into my ears, threatening my sense of hearing for good. Like the couple, I didn’t really want to be here right now, either. Alas, I gave my word, so there was no turning back.

           “Or we can just turn around right now,” Seth suggested the thought that I had been seriously considering myself.

           “No,” Noa shook her head firmly, a decision having been made in her mind. There was no going back now that she knew what she wanted to do. “I got dressed up for this crapfest, so there is no way in hell that we are leaving now. It would be a waste of a good outfit, and there’s going to be free beer, so that’s reason enough to go. C’mon.”

           The girl who was currently in a neon green dress that didn’t quite employ all the basic virtues of “modesty” walked right up to the large door, not even wavering slightly in her bright yellow heels of an absurd height. She stuck her finger out and courageously pressed down on the doorbell of the building. Drawn-out seconds passed, and then we were suddenly greeted by a tall boy with dark straight hair, a blue button-down, khaki shorts, boat shoes, and a beer in hand.

           “Hi,” the guy said, carefully scrutinizing each of us before his eyes settled on me. He extended his open hand to me, and we shook. “I’m Scott.”

           “Eric,” I introduced myself.

           “Eric…Wilson?” he questioned hesitantly as I almost cursed aloud right then and there. Eric Wilson. The fact that he was using my last name meant that he had somehow heard of me, which was weird, considering I had only talked to about twelve people over the past five days. I didn’t want the reputation of being The Eric Wilson—I had already lived that reality in high school. Eric. That was all I wanted to be known as. No surname attached for the sake of prestige—just Eric.

           “Yeah,” I nodded slowly, contemplating lying and telling him that that wasn’t my name, but I had already learnt my lesson with Liz, being that the truth was always the best option.

           “Well, welcome, dude!” he smiled at me, turning to the other two who were with me for a brief moment. “Who are you two?”

           “I’m his roommate,” Seth said stiffly, neglecting to mention his own name.

           “And you?” Scott asked Noa, his eyebrows raised marginally.

           “Well, I’m his girlfriend,” she pointed to Seth, “but I’m also Kay’s roommate.”

           “Kay Rodgers?”

           “The one and only,” Noa sighed with a roll of her eyes.

           “Well, welcome!” Scott said, having analyzed that we were all eligible enough for admittance. He moved aside from the entryway, allowing the three of us to pass through.

           After a brief explanation of where everything (drinks, food, people, etc.) was situated, Noa and Seth ditched me, leaving me alone with Scott. Scott had taken to extracting his phone, and was now furiously texting someone. I was pretty sure that walking away from the current host would be slightly rude, so I stayed put, awkwardly stuffing my hands into the pockets of my mint green shorts that were almost of a sea foam color—but not. As predicted, the music was definitely blasting, but not as loudly as I had anticipated. I could still hear myself think and stuff, and it wasn’t as bad as expected.

           “Sorry about that,” Scott apologized, placing his phone into one of his back pockets. “So, Eric, want to get some good barbecue, or what?”

           “Yeah, sure,” I said, beginning to walk just as he did.

           “You met Houston,” he stated, not in a questioning forming, but just as a fact of life like that grass was green or that everyone eventually died.

           “He’s nice,” I commented, unsure of where exactly the conversation was headed. My eyes skimmed the surroundings, which essentially consisted of a few dark, carpeted hallways with doors and pictures of large groups of boys (most likely past “members”) on the walls. So far, it was nothing all that extraordinary.

           “Yeah, he’s a great guy,” Scott nodded. He then asked something that I was beginning to think was the standard icebreaker at Stanford. “Where are you from?”

           “New York,” I answered.

           “No kidding?” the guy laughed. “I’m from Pennsylvania. Where in New York?”

           “The suburbs,” I said, aware that he wouldn’t actually know where I was from. Besides the whole geographical connection thing beginning to seem a little repetitive and tedious to me, and though he didn’t seem like the type, I didn’t need this guy showing up at my house for Thanksgiving or in the middle of the summer, saying, “Surprise! Remember me?”

           “Are you a Giants fan?” Scott questioned.

           “Kinda,” I answered. “I like playing sports—I’m not big on watching. Like, I will, but I just prefer physically playing and stuff, I guess.”

           “And what do you play?” he went on to ask the Second Most Frequently Asked Question at Stanford.

           “I played football, mainly. Also, I was really big on baseball at one point,” I told him, feeling as if was a song set on replay with the amount of times I had shared my history with the sport involving an oddly shaped ball and tackling others.

           “What about lacrosse?” he inquired eagerly, leaving me to presume that it was his personal favorite or that he happened to play.

           “I think that I played for a summer at a camp when I was, like, fourteen, but that’s really it,” I said, not recalling an extensive relationship with lacrosse in my personal past. It was always football for me. Sure, I started out with t-ball when I was five like everybody else, but I eventually transitioned into football, keeping some ties to my baseball-ish origins. After a while, though, I dropped baseball altogether, for I found football much more enjoyable, and I was better at it. That was then, though.

           “Oh? I’ve been playing since I was eight,” Scott said, proving my previous theory correct.

           “That’s cool,” I nodded, feeling the awkward portion of the conversation coming on.

           “Yeah,” he shrugged, leading me past what appeared to be a completely stainless steel kitchen, right through an open screen door, and into the warm Californian air with just the right amount of a breeze.

           We were on a patio, and the smell of smoke and grilled meat were the only two aromas that my nose primarily picked up—which made complete and total sense, considering the fact that it was a barbecue and all. People were talking, laughing, and eating, spread throughout the grassy backyard that stretched beyond the patch of concrete where the grill and food were. It was nice. No quite my ideal scene, but definitely nice.

           “So, Eric,” Scott continued as we stood near the door, “do you have a girlfriend?”

           “No,” I answered simply, not needing to give some complex response like I had mistakenly done with Seth during our first interaction with one another.

           “Well, that’s good, because I’m more than sure that a guy like you can definitely find a girl here to hook up with. There are always a ton of girls at our parties,” Scott laughed, nodding his head in recognition as someone passed by us. There were a lot of people.

           “Is that Houston?” I questioned, desperately wanting to change the uncomfortable subject. I wasn’t a “hook up” kind of guy. Though I may have been the only one on the planet to have the philosophy, I was of the “all or nothing” variety. I liked the concept of “commitment” a heck of a lot, and had never really experimented with an “open” relationship. I only did exclusivity. To me, there were no other options.

           “Where?” Scott twisted his head, until he finally spotted the large guy I had met about a day and a half prior.

           Like both Scott and me, Houston had elected the button down and shorts look, though the colors that he chose for the event were white bottoms and a pink top. The basic outfit seemed to be pretty common as I began to notice others’ clothing choices. Thankfully, I blended in perfectly—like always. Now, the difference between Houston’s outfit and mine wasn’t that my shirt happened to be white and blue striped, but more that over his torso happened to be an apron—a “manly” apron that happened to say, “Real Men Wear Aprons,” but an apron, nonetheless. To go along with the white stretch of fabric that was covering the majority of his front, he also was holding a spatula. It was quite the different image from the Houston Walker who I had originally met.

           “Yo, apron boy!” Scott called out, gaining not only Houston’s attention but also that of others in the near vicinity. He began to walk over to Houston, with me following about a yard behind.

           “Hey, asshole!” Houston greeted back with a good-humored laugh, seeming to take well enough to what Scott had called him.

           “I met this kid,” Scott said, putting his arm awkwardly around my neck like we had known each other for all of eternity and it was perfectly normal.

           “On behalf of our entire fraternity, I apologize for ya having to deal with this loser,” Houston said, turning around for a moment so that he wasn’t facing us, but the grill. With the use of his trusty metal utensil, he flipped two slabs of meat that were cooking, and then spun back around to us, as if nothing had happened.

           “No, no, he’s cool,” I assured Houston with a shaky smile, though I knew that it still appeared solid and genuine.

           “Uh, Scott, why doesn’t he have a beer yet?” Houston questioned, staring at my empty hands quizzically.

           “Oh, it’s fine,” I told him, “I don’t drink.”

           Houston glanced at my personal tour guide who had removed his ligament from me, and began to heartily laugh. Scott joined in soon after, and it was as if what I had said was the most ridiculous and dumbest thing they had ever heard. The guy in the apron just shook his head, saying, “Good one, Eric!”

           “Wait,” Scott said, pausing for a moment, “maybe he’s an alcoholic or something. Eric, are an alcoholic or something?”

           “No,” I answered with a sigh.

           “I’ll get ya a beer later,” Houston promised me, “but right now do ya want a piece of the World’s Greatest Steak or a burger?”

           “Or a hotdog, if you’re a vegan or whatever,” Scott added a choice to the limited menu.

           I would have pursued the issue that vegans didn’t actually eat hotdogs because they tended to consist of animals, but didn’t want to impose. Instead, I elected Houston’s second option, because it sounded the safest. “A burger’s just fine, thank you,” I said.

           “When you finish that, ya better come and get a piece of steak. It’s great!” Houston said, taking a paper plate with a circular bun on it from a mini table beside him and placing a hockey puck of meat onto it. He handed me the plate, and all I could do was stare down at the ginormous burger. Just like Houston, it was big.

           “Ketchup and, like, mustard and stuff are over there,” Scott said, pointing to the mini table where condiments were located. Because I happened to be a relatively neutral human being who was average and not at all distinct or interesting, I didn’t like ketchup or mustard—I preferred to consume everything plain. Boring, I was aware.

           “I probably should’ve started with this, but welcome to our fraternity house, Eric!” Houston inserted later than necessary.

           “Thanks,” I said, taking a bite out of the food that I was holding so that I had an excuse to not talk for at least ten seconds.

           “So, you can either go mingle with people here,” Scott said, the tone in his voice suggesting that there was more than one possibility, “go inside and explore the house some more, talk to us because we’re awesome, or do whatever the hell.”

           “I think that I’m going to go try to find my roommate, if that’s all right with you,” I expressed, not really intending to do so. I just wanted some space to myself. Chances were that Seth was making out with Noa in a dark room, so finding him didn’t seem all that appealing.

           “Of course!” Houston nodded agreeably. “Before you leave, though, I should probably introduce ya to a few people. Also, if ya see Kay anywhere, can you tell her that I’m grillin’ and that she should join me so that I’m not alone?”

           “Alone?” Scott scoffed. “What are you talking about? I’m here! How is that ‘alone’?”

           “You’re not very good company,” Houston just shrugged, using that accent of his so that his words didn’t sound nearly as rude as if they had come out of, say, my mouth.

           “Whatever, apron boy,” Scott retaliated.

           “I’ll catch up with you guys later,” I bid.

           “Awesome meeting you, Eric,” Scott waved as I took a small step away from them.

           “You too,” I said, waving back just before I walked away entirely.

           While the exchange between Houston, Scott, and myself had been completely painless, it wasn’t exactly pleasurable, either. I had no interest in talking to either of them, and was utterly confused as to why I had been invited to the party. There was no one from my high school at Stanford, so my old reputation hadn’t been transported all the way to California—of that, I was positive. It was just odd, really.

           After entering back into the house (if it could really be called that), I passed the kitchen, and decided to do as Scott had recommended: explore. When we had first entered the house, there was this grand staircase with a wooden bannister and red carpet covering it that looked particularly enticing, so it became my main objective. I backtracked through where Scott had taken me, until I reached the front door and the stairs. The entire décor of the place was an odd mix between insanely modern and traditional to the fullest extent imaginable. I liked it, though.

           With my burger balanced on the plate, I embarked on my expedition up the steps, wondering to what they could possibly lead. There wasn’t anyone in sight, and the music became increasingly softer the higher up I went. When I finally reached the top of the stairway, I was met with a dark hallway, practically identical to the one downstairs that I had already seen. Not thinking too much about it, I went down the hall, determined to find a quiet room to eat my burger in peace.

           Two doors came into view on either side of me. After briefly inspecting each of them, they appeared to be silent, and hopefully empty. Just to be sure, I knocked on the one to my right, and received no answer. Cautiously, I twisted the doorknob, and opened it, a familiar smell I never wanted to encounter again instantly finding its way to my nostrils.

           My eyes shot about the room and I saw about three boys lounging around the room, looking out of it. Their eyes were bloodshot, and they looked like the relaxed zombies that I knew so well. Not taking even another second to contemplate it, I slammed the door shut again, my heart pumping faster than ever before as I dropped my burger on the floor, not even bothering to pick it up.

           Shakily, I slid my phone out from my pocket, and called the first name I saw. Two rings went by before the person on the other end finally picked up. “Hello? Eric? What’s wrong? Are you okay?” the questions started flooding in as I dared to walk over to the other door on my left that I hadn’t opened.

           Even more warily than the first, I opened the door and was relieved to find that no one was in it. Essentially, it appeared to be a lounge-type of room. There were only couches and a few chairs—no beds. It was a relatively empty space, but the layout didn’t really matter to me. What did matter, though, was the sense of déjà vu that I never wanted to relive again.

           “M-Mom,” I began with a gulp, my voice quiet, “I’m at a party. I just opened a door to a room and saw a few guys who were high. I’m fine. My pulse is skyrocketing and I’m shaking, but otherwise, I’m fine.”

           “You didn’t,” she paused, trying to figure out how to phrase the inquiry, “go into the room—did you?”

           “No, I closed it the second I saw them. I smelled the, uh, stuff, and that was it. I just wanted to tell you,” I gulped, slowly breathing in and breathing out, just as I had been taught.

           “Do you want me to make some calls and maybe set you up with someone to talk to?” she asked, her voice level and loving like a mother’s was supposed to be.

           “No, I think I’m fine,” I told her, trying desperately to regulate my breathing. Those guys weren’t me. I was better than them. I wasn’t going back to being that type of person. I couldn’t.

           “Are you sure?” she pressed, concerned.

           “Yes.”

           “Okay. I’m glad that you called me, Eric,” she said. “Just keep breathing and everything will be fine.”

           “I know, Mom, I know,” I gulped, continuing to do just as she said. “I think I’ll be fine, it was just abrupt—that’s all.”

           “But you’re fine?”

           “Yeah,” I inhaled deeply, releasing the air a second later, “I’m fine.”

           “Okay. If you start not feeling fine, then I can definitely find someone else for you to talk to out there,” she said.

           “I swear, I’m fine,” I assured her, not needing to see another therapist just because I had witnessed some idiots in the midst of ruining their lives. “I’ll call you again if I need. Thanks.”

           “Of course, Eric.”

           “Bye, Mom.”

           “Bye, Eric,” she uttered, hanging up, and leaving me listening to reticence. All I could hear was the sound of my own panting as I continued to hold my phone up to my ear, not really knowing how to go on with my life.

           My eyes began to wander about the room as I noticed two doors that were parallel to the one from which I had originally entered the space. One of them was open slightly more than ajar, the other remaining completely closed. From the open door I could see light and hear distant murmurs of people. Slowly and curiously, I edged my way over to the entry. I moved past the half closed door, and was surprised with what I met.

           I was no longer indoors, but now out. My feet were standing on a semicircle of a balcony with a white railing. It overlooked the backyard, meaning that all the commotion occurring down below was fully visible. The sight was a nice one, but what I liked more was the aspect that I wasn’t directly apart of it. Something about not having to be in the middle of everything anymore gave me solace. I wasn’t the same person who I once was.

           What finally broke the trance I had somehow come to as I took everything in was a sneeze. It was quiet and followed by a few sniffles. The sound was too loud—too real to be from any place other than the one where I was, so I immediately spun around, spotting a familiar girl crouched in a corner with a single earphone in place. She had long, dark, thick curls springing from her head, and her arms were hugging her knees, which were pressed up against her chest. It didn’t appear as though she had been crying or was having a panic attack. She just looked tranquil.

           “Hi,” I greeted as I stared into her deep eyes of a chocolate shade.

           “Hi,” she echoed, not moving from where she was, or moving at all, really.

           “I’m Eric,” I said, though we had met once before.

           “I’m Ari,” she said. Rain. Her voice was like rain.

           “We’ve met,” I stated.

           “We have,” she confirmed.

           “You’re Kay’s friend.”

           “As are you.”

           “Well, I wouldn’t go so much as to call us ‘friends’—acquaintances, maybe,” I shrugged, not deeming our two interactions with one another enough to classify our association with each other a “friendship.”

           “Maybe,” she agreed.

           “Um, did you hear the conversation I was having on the phone a minute ago?” I questioned anxiously, not needing that facet of my history to follow me as well.

           “I heard words, but I wasn’t really following,” she said, slowly shifting from her previous position so that she was now standing, still in the corner. Denim shorts, a dark gray V-neck tee, and black flip-flops. Like the first time I had seen her, she wasn’t dressed to impress. She looked plain, simple, and comfortable—all of which I was sure that she was aiming for.

           “Okay.”

           “Are you sure? You don’t really seem okay?” she commented, her bottom lip rolling into her mouth, as if she was intently thinking.

           “That’s because I’m not,” I chose to reply honestly.

           Instead of probing why I wasn’t okay, like I had expected, she suddenly blurted out something I really wasn’t anticipating. “You’re really attractive,” she said evenly.

           “Uh, thanks,” I mumbled, caught off guard by her candor, “um, so are you.”

           She just nodded, sitting back down on the floor of the balcony, but more openly than when I had first seen her, so that her legs were extended, exposing all of their length. Patting on the open space beside her, I took it as a cue for me to sit down, too. My back leaned against the exterior of the “house,” and my bottom was firmly planted to the miniature deck. I felt something being stuck into my ear, and soon realized that it was an earphone. Alien melodies that possessed a soft, sad sound floated into my eardrums as I stared ahead of me, still able to see people and the party.

           I wasn’t really a music buff, and had discovered that I also wasn’t “musically gifted,” after being condemned to playing the triangle in my second grade music class. Singing was completely out of the question, leaving one thing: listening. I was a good listener when it came to most things, so music was no exception.

           Though I was good at listening to it, my actual taste in music had been questioned numerous times. I liked pop. Happy, light, mainstream pop. Anything on the top charts of iTunes was for me. There was no specific genre that I favored more than another, which probably said something about me as a person, in spite of the fact that I wasn’t sure what.

           And here I was now: on the balcony of a frat house, with a girl named Ari, who I had only met once before, still trying to calm myself down, as I listened to depressing music. It wasn’t exactly the way I had envisioned spending my time, but I was okay with that. And that was all I wanted right now—to be okay.