The apartment had been transformed. I'd never seen Ryan throw himself into something like he'd thrown himself into this. I thought it would be just one of those things. Tell a few friends, they'll tell their friends. A couple of kegs on the deck and maybe grill some food. Everyone would drink too much and someone would throw up all over the bathroom. A few people would get laid on my bed before the party was over and the best I could hope for was not to walk in on them. Someone would pass out on the couch. A few would end up skinny-dipping in the neighbor's pool.

Now it was something else. Ryan had rented a bar with taps. There were blocks of ice in the freezer. The kitchen counter tops were lined with liquor bottles. I had seen the invitations. Ryan had sent out five hundred of them. Never mind that our apartment's backyard couldn't hold five hundred people. There were now power strips screwed into the wood on the deck. Stacked in the corner was a full PA system. In the middle of the living room sat a ping-pong table with hundreds, or maybe thousands of red keg cups on it. There was a set of plastic margarita glasses on one end still in the packaging. Lying on top of them was a box of fifty ping-pong balls. The only thing we didn't have was furniture. Except for the ping-pong table and the PA, the living room was empty. All of the furniture was gone.

I stood for a while, not wanting to be there. I didn't know where John was staying and Georgia had started staying at Tim's place. In the fridge I found a case of cheap beer. I used it as a makeshift table as I slumped down against the wall and cracked one open. This was it. This was what my college career had come to. A few broken relationships, a case of beer and a living room with no furniture in it. My dad would have been so proud.

I woke up surrounded by empty beer cans, the box crushed from where I'd fallen asleep on it. I didn't feel drunk but I wasn't hung over either. It was dark but I didn't know what time it was. I staggered into the bathroom and threw up warm beer. I looked at the mirror and my face looked pale, the skin waxy. I pushed a finger into my cheek and watched my lips move. I wasn't even aware that I was saying something. "Gotta fake it to make it, gotta fake it to make it," I told myself over and over again until the words didn't have any meaning. In the medicine cabinet I found a bottle of Vicodin that was way past its expiration date and stood there slowly chewing the pills, the bitter taste not registering. In the kitchen I took a bottle of whiskey off the counter and pulled the plastic tamper proofing off with my teeth. I took the bottle into my room, turned on the radio and listened to whatever station was playing. Everything got slow and fuzzy.

I woke to Ryan crashing in the front door. I could hear him laughing and someone was giggling with him and he was trying to shush them both.

"Champagne?" I heard him ask and then I heard the cork pop. They were both quiet for a moment then his door slammed shut and there was muffled giggling from behind it.

Staying for the party was out of the question. I had to get out of there.

The vicodin made everything slow and confusing and I couldn't get a hold of what was happening. The whiskey bottle lay on the floor, smashed. There was a hole in the dry wall a few feet above it. I stared at it for a while, wondering if I did it. I threw a dirty t-shirt on top of the broken glass and no it was no longer my problem.

I didn't bother to shower. I just threw clothes into a backpack. I stood there wondering what I was doing. I had to check and see what was in the backpack because I couldn't remember what I had just put in it. Clothes, right. Everything was happening too fast. I shook my head to try and clear it but it left me nauseous and off balance. I couldn't catch up to what was going on.

It was a sixteen-hour drive most of which I didn't remember. I remember pulling into a rest area to sleep and throwing up in a gas station bathroom. When I got there I was destroyed. Black spots from exhaustion floated across my vision turning everything surreal in the afternoon light. I staggered out of the car and stood dumbfounded. I was amazed to find the Seaside still there and it looked exactly the same as it had then. I turned my head to the side almost believing that I'd see Sarah getting out of the car. I started to say something to her when I realized no one was there. Tears stung in my eyes and I had to blink several times before they went away.

Then I started to notice the differences. The flowers along the path had been changed. They were tropical and brighter than I remembered. The flowers had been planted in beds and now they stood almost four feet high in places. The trees, too, had grown higher, giving more shade to the walkway. The sign was freshly painted. The Seaside itself hadn't been painted though and the years of abuse from the ocean had faded the red almost to a pink.

When I stepped inside I recognized Jean right away. She looked at me sideways, like she was trying to remember who I was. I knew she would have recognized Sarah right away.

"You look like hell." She said.

I started to say something. Reintroduce myself or remind her who I was but I stopped myself. I didn't want to tell her about Sarah. She wouldn't have known about the suicide and whatever memory she held of Sarah, I didn't want to taint by having to tell her how Sarah died. It was better to let her remember Sarah the way she was when we were there. Happy and relaxed and carefree and in love. There was no reason to ruin that.

"Long drive," was all I managed to croak out.

"I guess. Let's get you to a bed before you die right here in my lobby."

"Thanks."

---

Chapter 20 | Suicide and Keg Stands Index | Chapter 22

Posted by Ben Corman at 9:23 AM

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Posted by: Anonymous at March 17, 2008 04:34 PM

Posted by: pabs at March 22, 2008 02:44 AM

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